Leave Me Be
by ClearAsCountryAir
Summary: He had always trusted her. Since the beginning. But, unlike with John, he had not always been aware. Sherlock Holmes did not trust people easily. And when he realized that he trusted Molly Hooper, the sweet, nervous girl who worked in the morgue, well, that surprised him. And Sherlock Holmes never surprises himself.
1. Prologue

**A/N: Many a thanks to my lovely beta, Prisci.**

**Disclaimer: ****_Sherlock_****. It's not mine.**

Gravity. Forever there. Constant. Unavoidable. That overwhelming force that pulls a body towards the centre of any other physical body with mass. That force that influences every second for everyone.

We can undergo the sensation of leaving it - to take off in an aeroplane, to float in the sea, that light as a feather feeling - but we can never truly escape it; the feeling is fleeting.

The gravity of the earth controls everything. It takes us and wraps us in its strong arms and pulls us down, soft enough to give us the ability to land and hard enough that landing in the wrong place at the wrong time can shatter us completely.

It's greedy, gravity. The greediest thing in the universe.

It's the Earth's gravity that keeps mankind on our planet's surface, holding us down. Even those who escape come back in the end.

You jump from the surface of the Earth and it pulls you back, bringing you lightly to its surface.

You - or the world's only consulting detective - jump from above the surface of the Earth - for example, from the roof of a hospital - and it brings you still to the surface, no longer lightly, but with a force, a force strong enough to tear apart worlds or, at the very least, to tear apart lives.

But the gravity of the Earth is not the only force pulling us towards something, even when it would be easier to stay away. Sometimes the gravity of a person is strong enough to keep us forever tethered to them, even when we want to just walk away.

Molly Hooper never intended to love Sherlock Holmes. He was, to put it kindly, a complete douchebag. In fact, after the first time she met him, she prayed he would enjoy one of the other pathologists more. She knew her faults, she didn't need some cocky detective to tell her of them. But he must have found even worse faults in her coworkers. Because he was always there. Always. And then one day, she realised she didn't hate him. Quite the opposite, actually. The day after that he asked if she would let him into the lab.

"Why?"

"An experiment." And then that look.

"...Okay."

She was trapped. She tried to distance herself, when she realised that she was just being constantly sucked in, constantly drawn closer to his hidden interior. It frightened her, this inescapable force. So she tried to find someone else, someone who's gravity would pull her in, would free her from the gravity of Sherlock Holmes.

But serial killers weren't exactly her cup of tea.

And she was stuck, unable to go anywhere. Lost within the gravitational pull of Sherlock Holmes. And she knew she would never escape, no matter how hard she tried. It was tortuous, the knowledge that she would never be able to live a normal life, hung up in the gravity of something so grand it would never notice her.

The world, with its gravity, makes all the difference to its inhabitants. But the individual inhabitant is nothing to the world.

Sherlock Holmes was Molly Hooper's world, she was constantly aware of him, constantly influenced by the way he treated her. But she didn't count, not to him. She was just a small particle, so small she couldn't be seen, lost in the field around him.

But, sometimes, even the world needs a saviour. Something to depend on.

_What do you need?_

_You._

Sometimes, gravity is overwhelming. We search for ways to escape it, to have control over our lives, over our bodies.

But, one day, we learn that we need gravity. Without it, we float through life, unable to find something solid, something to hold on to. So we respect it. And we use it.

Because gravity, of every type, is the very essence of life.


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: Again, thank you, Prisci.**

**And I still don't own Sherlock.**

* * *

_Her face felt stiff. Her hand rose to meet her cheek. It was wet. She was crying. Why was she crying? She opened her mouth to call out for someone, anyone, and realised there wasn't enough air left in her lungs to cry out. She had been crying for a very long time. She took a shuddering breath and wiped her eyes and nose on her sleeve._

_The silence was deafening and the darkness was blinding. She reached out in front of her for something solid, something to give her an idea of where she was. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness as her hand found something hard. A table. Her examining table. In her morgue. She reached out for the paperwork beside the table. _Name: Sherlock Holmes; Cause of Death: blunt force trauma to the head - suicide._ It was all written in a foreign hand. As if she were trying to write while failing to control her own limbs._

_She knew she had filled out that paperwork, certifying the death of Sherlock Holmes. But she knew it wasn't his body on the table. She raised her head to glance at the face of the corpse on the table. _

_He had promised her it wouldn't be him. He had promised her that, even if he jumped, he wouldn't die. It would all be an act. He would have to lie low for a while, while people gossiped about the suicide of Sherlock Holmes, but he'd live safely on her couch. He promised her it would be alright._

_But she couldn't mistake that mess of curly black hair, not even when it was soaked in blood. She couldn't mistake that face, that perfect, cruel, loving face. She placed a tentative hand on his shoulder._

_"Sherlock?"_

_She shook the body gently._

_"Sherlock, you can wake up now."_

_She shook him harder._

_"Sherlock, it's just me. Just Molly, Sherlock. You can wake up now. We can go home."_

_But the body on the table didn't move. The waxy skin suddenly felt cold to the touch. She withdrew her hand and clutched it to her chest as though it were on fire._

_"Sherlock!" her voice cracked and the tears began to flow once more. "Sherlock, you promised me. You promised you wouldn't get hurt!"_

_A too-bright light began filling the room. She shut her eyes tightly, still crying. Somewhere, she could hear her cat purring._

_"Molly."_

_But the dead don't talk. _

"Molly!"

Molly Hooper opened her eyes to see a tall figure, perfectly alive, next to her bed. She groaned and rolled over to look at her alarm clock. 5:41. She didn't have to wake up for work until six. She pulled her pillow over her head to block out the light flooding in through her now-opened window and prayed that she could get back to sleep.

"MOLLY!" Her pillow was pulled harshly from her head.

"Sherlock! What… What did I say about coming in my room without knocking?" She blinked her eyes as she adjusted to the light, trying her best to look angrily at the sad skinny man now sitting at the foot of her bed. Six weeks. Six weeks Sherlock Holmes had lived in her apartment and he _still_didn't understand the concept of privacy.

"We're almost out of milk," he replied flatly.

Molly grunted and pulled the pillow back over her head. If she had known he'd be so incredibly frustrating, she probably would have never taken him in.

But, of course, that was a lie. She knew she always would take him in, no matter what. As long as he needed her, she would be there.

Her bed creaked as Sherlock stood up, Molly's cat meowing in his arms.

" Come along, Toby. Let's leave Molly alone. She obviously has no respect for our superior intelligence."

"You can't insult me to my _cat_. He's not even human! Sherlock!"

But the man and the cat had already left her room. She sighed. It was something Sherlock had taken to recently, talking to Toby. She knew it was his way of mocking her for talking to the cat and she knew that he did it to upset her, but there was something about it, something about the domesticity of Sherlock Holmes talking to a _cat,_ that, well, that she found...endearing? She rolled over and stared at her open window. There was no going back to sleep now. She got out of bed and dragged herself into the shower. She closed her eyes and let the warm water wash over her as she hummed some new song she heard on the radio. She had always dreamt, always fantasised about living domestically with Sherlock Holmes. In these fantasies, they'd eat together every night. After dinner, they'd curl up together on the couch and watch a bit of telly. And, at night, rather than leaving him on the couch, Sherlock Holmes would join her in bed. And he'd love her.

Of course, life was nothing like her fantasy. Instead, she found living with Sherlock to be like living with a ghost. He was never communicative, never caring. He was just there, bothering her when she was needed. She breathed in the steamy air, thinking about the hell that was her life. But today was Friday. That meant that it was almost the weekend. She would finally have a break. God bless Friday.

Friday.

"Shit," she hissed. Friday meant going out. Friday meant going out with _Greg Lestrade_. It wasn't that she didn't like Greg, not in the slightest. It was just that, well, to be perfectly honest, she was still distracted by the supposedly dead detective who had been sleeping on her couch for over six weeks. But she had agreed to go. Something about Greg interested her. He was sweet and kind and _noticed _her - _liked_ her even. And given her track record, well that was as good as she was going to get.

She closed her eyes, trying to block out reality. How could her life end up like this? What did she do to get all she desired and all she feared living on her couch? She let the hot water run over her until it her skin was red from the heat. Reluctantly, she got out of the shower, dressed, and walked into her flat's small kitchen.

She didn't know why, but she was trembling as she poured the coffee into two mugs (splash of milk, one sugar for her; black, two sugars for Sherlock). He'd ask questions if she didn't come home from work straight away. And he'd probably forget to feed Toby. He'd probably forget to feed himself, too.

"I- I'll be late tonight," she called out as she scooped some food into Toby's bowl. She wasn't prepared for the slight stutter that made its way out with her words.

Dammit, why did he always have to make her so nervous? She thought she had gotten past the stuttering. But ever since Sherlock had moved in, it was constantly there, unless, of course, she was yelling at him. Her voice always flowed smoothly then.

"There's, uh, there's leftover Chinese in the fridge." She paused, debating whether or not to clue him in. She had tried the whole "make him jealous" thing before. But her relationship with "Jim from IT" hadn't worked out too well.

"...I've got a ...uh, date."

There was a meow as Sherlock came skidding around the corner, Toby hot on his heels.

"A date? You? With who?"

Molly was taken aback by his sudden interest. Maybe this would work. Or maybe he was bored. That's it. That was the safer thought. Sherlock was bored. He needed new information. He wanted something he could think about.

"Greg, Greg Lestrade." Something passed through Sherlock's eyes, something she didn't understand. It was quick - any form of emotion with Sherlock always was - but something changed when she said Greg's name. Maybe it was just surprise.

And then, of course, Sherlock snorted.

"Lestrade? Boring."

That was the last reaction Molly had expected. It wasn't that she wanted him to jump for joy or anything of that sort, but Greg was a good man and Sherlock knew that. But he was Sherlock and she was Molly. He always had to bring her down.

"I - But, you… You like him plenty."

"Yes, Molly, but that doesn't mean you should _date_ him." He looked annoyed, as though Greg's interest in Molly was a personal insult to him. He stared at her, as though he was trying to read her. "Why did he ask you anyway?"

"Maybe, Sherlock, maybe he fancies me." Sherlock rolled his eyes. Why did this bother him so much? Who was he to have a say in who she dated? It was infuriating. A part of her understood - the last guy she had dated was Jim (had it really been so long?) and Sherlock was clearly not going to forget that.

_"For the sake of law and order, I suggest you avoid all future attempts at a relationship, Molly."_

"He's _Greg_, Sherlock. I don't think he's going to try to kill you."

Sherlock snorted. "But what would he want with _you_?"

"Maybe, Sherlock, just maybe there exist men who want me for reasons other than getting to _you_!"

Sherlock took a step back. He looked...guilty? No, it was insulted. Or angry. He picked up Toby and walked over to the couch.

"Doubt it. I hope you and _Greg_ have a _lovely_ time together. Don't forget to buy the milk."

But Molly had left, slamming the door behind her.

She couldn't stop think about that conversation with Sherlock all day. Even now, as she sat across from Greg at some Italian joint, she couldn't stop wondering why he was so bothered by her having a date, why he seemed to think her undesirable to all.

"Molly?" he paused, waiting for a reaction, "Molly?"

"Hmm?"

"I asked if you've talked with John lately… Are you okay?"

"I-" she paused. "I guess I'm just, um, just tired. We got coffee last Wednesday."

They talked about John for a short while before things turned to Sherlock. Like things always did. They sat in silence for a moment, unsure of what to say. Molly stared at her lap, aware of Greg's eyes on her. People always did that, every time Sherlock came up. She would always be that poor girl who spent all that time trying to make him love her back. The poor pathologist still hung up on a dead, disgraced detective. And she hated that. Because, in many ways, they were right. She would never stop loving him and was quite sure of that. She wanted to cry in frustration. What was she doing there, with Greg? What was she doing keeping Sherlock at home?

Yes, he had ruined her life, just not in the way some people seemed to think he did.

"You're angry."

That was not what she was expecting.

"Hm?"

"You're angry, Mols." Why did he do that? Why _Mols_? Only her granddad did that anymore. It was too kind, too foreign, and, at the same time, too familiar. Why did Greg have to keep reminding her that he was sweet? Or that he cared?

"Every time we talk about him, you look angry," he continued. "I - that's okay, Molly. He meant a lot to all of us. And he left us behind. This, this feeling angry with him, it's normal. You don't need to hold it in."

How? How was she supposed to respond to that? How was she supposed to say, _Well, no, Greg. I'm actually mad at him because he's been moping around on my couch for the past few months complaining about every little thing I do. Oh, and now he's angry at me for being here with you._

She settled on staring at her lap. _ Good god, Molly,_ she thought to herself. _Could you honestly be any more socially inept?_ Greg sat there for another moment, looking sad, before waving the waiter over for the bill. He paid, because of course he was a perfect gentleman and of course he did everything any girl's dream man would do.

Including insisting on walking her back to her building in the rain. She cursed living on the first floor, where Greg so easily could walk her to apartment.

That could not end well.

When they got to her door, she paused. She couldn't let him in, that would be very bad indeed.

"Um, yeah. So, Goodnight, Greg. Uh, thank you." She turned the key, hoping to slip quickly inside, hoping he would get his perfectness back outside, to be washed away by the rain.

"Molly?"

She turned to see what Greg wanted and quickly found his lips on hers. Not ending well, indeed.

She tried for a moment to kiss him back, to feel something. She really did. But all she could do was wish that he hadn't eaten such a garlic-filled meal.

Then, of course, Toby meowed. Much louder than he normally meowed. It was _that_ meow, the one he'd make when she would accidentally trip over him walking around in the dark.

"Shit! I, um, I have to go. See you around."

She hurriedly stepped inside, shutting the door in Greg's confused face.

"What the bloody Hell was that?!" She shrieked the second she saw Sherlock's face, forgetting that Greg could still be outside her door.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Molly. Please keep your voice down."

Molly was furious. How _dare_ he upset her night? After all she had done for him: risking her reputation, hell, her life, to fake his own death, allowing him to live in _her_ flat, everything.

"You stepped on my cat!"

"Don't be ridiculous. I have no grudges against your cat."

"Don't fuck with me!" She was furious; she normally tried so hard to keep her anger in control, never swearing, never shouting. But she couldn't do it anymore. Her chest heaved with rage. "You've been such a _fucking_ arse all day. What the _fuck_ did I do to _so_ offend you?"

"I didn't like the way he was kissing you," Sherlock replied, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"I- I- " she stammered. That was the absolute last thing she had expected him to say. What did it matter how he had been kissing her? He hadn't been kissing _Sherlock._ In fact, Sherlock had probably never even been kissed. Who'd want to kiss him, anyway? Except, well... No, she wasn't going to think about that now.

"Yeah, well, like you know anything about kissing, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock kept his lips tight but something changed in his eyes as he took a step closer to her, completely closing the gap between them. If Molly's heart hadn't been racing before, it most certainly was now. He bent down, close enough that she could feel his breath on her cheeks. She shut her eyes, wondering what it was like to be yelled at by the great Sherlock Holmes. But when he spoke, his voice was soft and cold, almost, one could say, frightening.

"I know you didn't kiss him back. I know that you could barely breathe until you got inside because you were so relieved at your success in not. inviting. him. in." He punctuated the last phrase, pausing deeply between each word, letting her know that _he_ knew. "I know you only went on that date out of courtesy. I -"

He was cut off by the sharp pressure of Molly's hand against his cheek. He blinked his eyes furiously before opening his mouth to speak again. But Molly was already slamming her bedroom door.

Toby pressed against Sherlock's ankle, meowing until he was picked up.

"Well, Toby," Sherlock sighed, loud enough for Molly to hear, "Seems you've gone and spoiled Molly's night."

He set the cat back down and walked into Molly's room, not even bothering to knock. She was lying in bed, eyes closed, cover pulled tightly around her. But Sherlock knew she wasn't really sleeping. He couldn't really explain it, but something about her lying there, trying so hard not to look sad or helpless, made him feel something, something he couldn't place a finger on. He wanted to kill whoever had upset her like this. Of course, legally, he was already dead_._ He cleared his throat even though he knew that she was already aware of his presence.

"Toby apologizes for upsetting you, Molly. He didn't put his tail under my foot on purpose." That should appease her. Molly _did_ seem to have it in her head that the cat had the mind of a human. But Molly didn't respond. Sherlock sighed. It is the good people who are always hurt so easily. They see only goodness in the world and the cruelty of reality breaks them. He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead and hesitantly pressed his lips right above her eyebrow.

"I'm sorry, Molly Hooper. Sleep well."

He stood and walked somberly to the door. He was just about to latch it behind him when he heard a soft, tired voice.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

Sherlock made his way back to the couch, crossing his legs and staring at the blank screen. He had had friends before, well, acquaintances - people who mattered. John, Mrs Hudson, Greg. And he had, especially with John, seen him upset - hell, upset him himself - without second thought. But this wasn't John. This was _Molly_. And he couldn't bear seeing her upset. Her smile, her odd, almost forced optimism, they should have been a constant annoyance. With anyone else, they would be. But he didn't mind them with Molly. He just _enjoyed_ being with her. She was easy, she was simple. She kept his suddenly lifeless life interesting.

Once, just to see how ordinary people worked, he had gone through dinner trying not to think about anything, not to study her, not to figure out what she wanted to talk about beforehand. To his surprise, his confusion, and - to an extent - his fear, he found no difference. The conversation flowed normally. He smiled slightly when she said something funny, she laughed as he complained about reality television. It was so _normal_. It almost frightened him.

He was Sherlock Holmes. He didn't _do_ normal. Sitting down, with a woman who loved him, eating three meals a day (a few days a week, at least), falling asleep with the cat in front of the television, it was so _domestic_. His eyes glanced towards Molly's shut door.

He was Sherlock Holmes. He didn't do caring. He didn't do affection. They just meant trust. And trust meant getting hurt. Always. Constantly.

Sherlock Holmes didn't trust. Not the type of trust to discover why Molly's anger was making him so miserable. Not the type of trust in himself to even think of the possible answers. If he couldn't even trust himself with his own feelings and curiosities, how could he trust another?

He looked back at the door.

He didn't need to trust her. He couldn't let himself trust her. He couldn't let himself care. She was _just _Molly, after all.

Just Molly. He sighed. _Well_, he thought to himself, _at least she'll probably still be angry in the morning_. Why would he trust an angry person? Especially one who was angry with _him_. He grabbed the blanket from the back of the couch and wrapped it around himself. Toby climbed onto his stomach. The first few nights, he had pushed the cat to the floor. But now he was used to him. He could talk to him without the cat talking back. More efficient than a human, more acceptable than a skull.

"Goodnight, Toby."

* * *

Sherlock awoke the following morning to the sound of slamming cabinets in the kitchen. He had been right. Molly was most certainly still bitter in the morning. He made his way towards her and stared as she scooped some food into Toby's bowl. As she scrambled some eggs on the stove, she didn't even acknowledge his presence. It wasn't unusual for there to be silence between the two, but even he could feel the tension between them, another thing he wasn't used to.

"Did you buy milk?" because something needed to be said.

Molly froze. She had half a mind to kick him out on the street. After all he had put her through the previous night, he had the nerve to ask if she remembered to buy milk. She didn't bother to turn to face him.

"It's in the fridge."

Some days, she truly hated Sherlock Holmes.

She heard the refrigerator open and shut again. She continued to ignore him.

"You're still angry at me." It was an observation, not a question. She said nothing. "Well?"

"You made a statement, Sherlock, it was not a question and therefore did not warrant a response."

Sherlock sat down at the table. He was used to people being angry with him. Back on Baker Street, John was angry all the time. But this was different. He had seen Molly frustrated with him before, but never this angry. He didn't like it.

"I stopped you from kissing a man you have little interest in. I don't see how this could sill be upsetting you."

Molly scooped some eggs onto a plate and promptly set them in front of him.

"Eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"Eat."

He raised an eyebrow at her. "I'm not hungry."

"Dammit, Sherlock! Just eat the damn eggs!"

She cringed at the shrillness of her own voice, turning around and leaning on the counter for support. Nobody got to her the way he did. It wasn't fair, how easily he could upset her.

"That wasn't about the eggs."

She took a deep breath. "Well, it's not about Greg, or the milk either."

She could hear Toby's soft purring as Sherlock lifted him onto his lap. She was glad she was still facing away from him. The picture of him holding Toby like any normal human being never failed to make her smile.

"Then tell me, Molly. What is upsetting you so much?"

_You._

"Why don't _you_ tell _me_?"

He stared at her back for several long moments. He used to be able to read her so easily. She was an open book, lying there, almost waiting for Sherlock to learn everything about her, with or without her explicit permission. But now he saw nothing. She was angry, of course, and it was directed at him. He could see that she had had a rough week at work. On Tuesday the look on her face had clearly shown that a child had been brought to her morgue. Molly hated dead children. So she had been upset all week. But why was she angry with him? It was something big, more than the crush she had on him. It had never been a problem before, her having liked him, so why would it be now?

"I don't know."

Molly spun around. What the hell was he talking about?

"What do you mean 'you don't know?' You _always _know. Everything about everyone. Whether we want you to or not."

Sherlock normally didn't have a problem admitting not knowing something to people he trusted. People like John. Of course, he seldom needed to, but it didn't normally bother him as much as people assumed it would. But he felt weak admitting not knowing something to Molly. Molly who was so impressed by his genius. She looked up at the clock. It read half past seven.

"You should go. You don't want to be late for work. Who else will perform all the autopsies?"

Something was wrong. Molly was no idiot.

"There are other attendants. Sherlo-"

"Well, they're all incompetent. So I recommend you leave." They made eye contact and he held her gaze for longer than he normally found comfortable. "Have a good day, Molly."

Molly bit her lip, torn between listening to him and forcing him to continue this conversation. She sighed and grabbed her bag from the counter.

She hated Sherlock Holmes. But, mostly, she hated loving him.


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N: I'm still thanking Prisci. She edited this chapter at 5 in the morning. God bless you.**

**Disclaimer: I made an 11:11 wish to own Sherlock. Didn't work out.**

* * *

Molly stared at the corpse on her table. Definitely homicide. Third this month. Blonde female, fifteen to twenty-five, death by asphyxiation. After running her eyes over the pale body, she shut them tight, turning away from the young corpse. Severe trauma to the breasts and vaginal region. Same as the other two.

Sometimes she hated her job.

She picked up the phone, ready to call in her findings. It rang three times.

"Sergeant Donovan."

"Sally? It's Molly Hooper, down at the morgue."

A sigh floated over the line. "So it was another one of _his_, wasn't it?"

Molly nodded before remembering Sally couldn't see her. "Um, yeah. Definitely his M.O. Hair colour, weight, height. Cause of death. Sexual trauma. It's all him."

She listened as Sally sighed again. In all honesty, she didn't mind the detective. She knew John was bitter towards her. He blamed her, in many ways, for Sherlock's death. But, as Sherlock had explained to her, and she agreed, Sally had just been a pawn in Moriarty's game. What she did, it wasn't her fault. She was made to believe it. But that didn't change John's bitterness towards Sergeant Donovan. Or Donovan's hatred for herself.

"You'll find him. You'll find the bastard behind all of this. I know you will."

She could almost hear Sally shaking her head. "But before he kills another girl, Molly? This is the third in the past month and that's just who we've found, who got reported missing."

"Sally-"

Sally let out a sound of frustration, a mixture somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. "I'm sorry, Molly. I've just been so stressed lately, what with these murders and the Rich Brook case with missing persons-"

It took Molly far too long to realise she could no longer hear Sally. She stared at her phone for a long minute, having dropped it to the floor. What was there to be made of Richard Brook? Sherlock had said Jim had killed himself. True, she hadn't seen the body, but she had been under strict orders from Sherlock: fill out his paperwork, put something in a sealed casket so as to resemble his weight, and get him the hell out of St. Bart's. No one had minded her leaving, no one had really even noticed. The next day, a few had offered their condolences; her absence went unquestioned and she had just assumed one of her coworkers had dealt with the body of James Moriarty. _But Richard Brook isn't so uncommon of a name. Maybe Sally's talking about another case._

"I-I'm sorry." She pulled the phone back to her ear. "I got distracted. What - what did you say about Rich Brook?"

"Well, he's still missing."

Molly shut her eyes, suddenly afraid. No. He was dead. He was dead and they found him on the roof of the hospital after Sherlock jumped.

"I'm sorry, _missing_?"

"Mmm-hmm." She listened as Sally took a sip of something over the line. "According to that reporter, he was last seen running from her apartment when, ummm, well when Sherlock started, fuck, um, Ms. Riley said he looked like he was going to attack him."

"Sally, you can't still believe in that-"

"What do you want me to believe, Molly? Everything says he was a fraud and nearly ruined this actor's life and now he's missing."

Molly shook her head furiously, glad Sally couldn't see her. This was bad. This was so horribly bad.

"Look, Molly. I hate talking about this, I really do. I'll call you later, alright?"

Molly bit her lip. "Just one thing, one question. About - about Sherlock."

Sally sighed.

"When you went up to the roof, was there anything there?"

"What do you mean?"

_Was James Moriarty's body there? Was there blood there?_

"Just - I don't know. Something that suggests that maybe he didn't jump."

"People saw him, Molly." Sally's voice was thick. "I'm sorry."

Molly shook her head. "No, no. Maybe, maybe it wasn't by choice. Just - was there _anything_ there?"

"Just Sherlock's phone, Molly. That was all. Listen, I really have to go now, but we'll do drinks soon, alright? When we finish this case. We'll celebrate catching the bastard."

The next few minutes were a blur. One minute, she was ending her call with Sally. The next, she was sitting on the floor of the lab, next to the examining table. Jim couldn't be alive. It wasn't possible. He put a bloody gun in his mouth, for Christ's sake. Sherlock said he had pulled the trigger, said that he had killed himself. Sherlock swore that to her. He swore to her that Jim Moriarty was dead. He swore to her.

He swore to her.

And then she was on her feet, throwing her belongings into her bag and grabbing her coat. She had to get home. He had lied to her. Sherlock had lied. After everything - _everything_ - she had done for him, he had lied to her. _It was to make me feel safe. He knew I wouldn't feel safe unless he was dead._

_Sherlock lied to me._

A hand closed around her wrist. "Doctor Hooper?"

She tried to keep walking.

"Molly!" She turned to face a younger blonde man. Doctor Max Ryan, toxicology. He smiled, releasing her wrist, which she clutched to her chest.

"What, um, what do you want?"

"I got back those reports you needed done. For your murder case." He handed her a stack of papers, that all too charming smile gracing his face under blue, far too dilated eyes. Molly shook her head quickly; she had been spending too much time with Sherlock.

"Right, well..." She trailed off, unsure of what to do. She really should check Max's reports, get them filed while still at the hospital. But she just needed to get home. "Could you just put them on my desk? I can look at them tomorrow."

"It's a murder case, Molly. Don't you think you should look at it?"

"Yeah, I know, but..." she trailed off, blinking several times and looking around. Why were hospitals so white? Max stared at her for a moment and began opening and closing his mouth rapidly, but she just looked at him. She could feel a strong buzzing building up in her ears, completely overwhelming her other senses. She had to get home. She turned, looking over her shoulder; she was so close to the door, if Max's mouth would just stop failing to talk to her. Something - flesh - wrapped around her wrist. She let out a small shriek of surprise and terror.

"Molly!"

She looked down to see a smooth hand wrapped around her wrist. Her eyes followed the hand to a wrist, an arm, a shoulder, a neck, Max. She shook her head, mouth dry.

"I'm so, so sorry." She could feel the tears welling up in her eyes as he released her.

"Hey, hey! It's alright." Max stared at her with worried eyes. "You know what? Just go home. Take tomorrow off, I'll cover for you. I can call the Yard, explain to them the results. You're working with DI Lestrade, right?"

Molly shook her head, blinking her eyes. "No, um, with his partner, Sally Donovan. Lestrade's still on desk duty."

"For letting Holmes on?" Molly nodded. Max rolled his eyes. "Didn't Donovan have to do with that, too?"

Molly shrugged. "I don't know." She gestured to the papers in his hands. "Oh, thank you, by the way."

Max smiled, resting an open hand on Molly's open arm. "Don't worry about it. Do, um, do you want me to call you a cab?"

Molly shook her head. "I'm fine, thanks. Um, thank you. See you...later."

She turned and walked off before he could say another thing. All she knew was that she had to get home. _And drunk. Very drunk._

* * *

She was barely in the door when Sherlock appeared in the hallway.

"You got off early."

Molly looked at her watch. "I get home around now every night."

"But you have groceries tonight." Of course, the obvious.

"If you can call them that."

Sherlock stared at her, a confused, curious, and, if she didn't know better, concerned stare. She had only ever actually seen this expression on him once before.

_"You can see me."_

_ "I don't count."_

Without taking his eyes off of her, he took the bag in her hands. He stared for a moment longer before extending his empty hand and gesturing Molly further into the apartment.

"Something's wrong."

"Oh?" Molly even surprised herself with the snarky tone of her voice.

Sherlock set the bag on the table, sitting himself down on the couch. She hated the way he was looking at her. She felt so small, so naked. They had an unspoken agreement, one that had been in place since he moved into her flat: he could not deduce anything about her (and let her know he had) without her consent. She should have known this agreement wasn't one to last.

"You never leave work early, unless you've been ill. Despite your apparent physical health, however, you've left early. You also went out and bought vodka, despite the fact that both of us seldom drink. Finally, you attitude. You're angry, but your anger is not directed at me. What happened at work? And don't say nothing, because it would be an obvious lie and - where are you going?"

Molly peered around the corner from the kitchen. "Glasses."

"I don't want to drink."

Molly turned around and walked back to the couch, sitting beside Sherlock, much closer than she normally did, her eyes cast down. When she finally looked up to make eye contact, Sherlock found himself caught off-guard by the utter fear in them. Why? He drew back slightly, straightening his back.

"Are you frightened of me?"

Molly shook her head, looking back down. No, she could never be scared of him.

"Sherlock...you wouldn't...you would never lie to me, would you? Especially not about why you're here. Right?"

She watched as Sherlock's head bent to one side.

"I've told you everything. I am forever indebted to you and would never lie about the circumstance that brought me here."

Molly nodded. She knew that already. Of course she knew that. She swallowed, feeling as though she could break down in tears any moment.

"Right, um, then you're gonna want a drink."

She could feel Sherlock's eyes on her as she poured the drinks. She wondered if he had any idea what was going on. She was fully aware of her trembling hands and was sure Sherlock had not missed them. But he was silent. Taking a deep breath, she walked back towards him, handing him a glass before sitting beside him and bringing her knees to her chest.

"It's serious."

"Sorry?"

"Whatever's bothering you."

Molly sighed. "It's fine, Sherlock. Tell me what you know."

Sherlock turned to face her. Maybe she had been right before, maybe he was concerned.

"I know something's wrong, and I know it's something that concerns me, otherwise you wouldn't have questioned your ability to trust me-"

"I didn't mean it."

"Regardless, whatever it is that has you in this state is bad, but I'd rather not assume the worse. So, tell me what's wrong."

"Um, well, I was talking today. With Sergeant Donovan. We've been on this case- serial murder. And, um, well, she mentioned a missing persons case she's working on..."

And so she began to talk, relaying her entire conversation with Sally, supplementing it with details from the days following his fall. She stumbled through her words, nervous for what she was sure was inevitable fury. But Sherlock just sat there, perfectly silent, watching her. Blue-green eyes on brown; not forceful, but curious - allowing for contact when she wanted it while not forcing it when she didn't.

"She said they only found your mobile. No blood, no gun... Nothing. And there should have been blood. A lot of blood. You saw it. But there wasn't any."

For the first time, talking to Sherlock Holmes felt natural, it felt safe. The stumbling over her words lessened and, for the first time since she had gotten off the phone with Sally, she no longer felt as though the world was ending - at least not in this very moment. Her eyes flickered around the room as she rattled off her story: to Sherlock's eyes, to his hand clutching the still full glass, to her own untouched glass, and back to his eyes.

"I moved just before last Christmas, so he can't possibly know where I live anymore. He _can't. _And I know, logically, he can't be alive, but..." She trailed off, eyes focussing on Sherlock's hands.

They sat there in silence a few minutes - or perhaps hours or even days - neither one moving. And then both acted at once.

"I'm scared, Sherlock," she said in almost a whisper as he took a long, slow drink from his glass.

"I assure you, Molly, my drinking should cause you no fear," he smiled teasingly. She hadn't known he was capable of such an expression.

Molly let out a snort of laughter, barely masking a sob, at the ridiculousness of his comment. "Now's not exactly the time to develop of sense of humour."

"Don't be ridiculous, Molly. I've always had a sense of humour. Just because you've never before witnessed it does not mean it doesn't exist."

"I'm being serious, Sherlock."

And then, more surprising than anything else he had done all night, maybe more surprising than anything he had done since he'd moved into her flat or, quite possibly, in all the years she had known him, Sherlock leaned towards her, one of his hands grasping her own and the other holding her shoulder, guiding her to face him.

"Whether or not Jim Moriarty is alive and whether or not he had an accomplice, I will not let anyone hurt you."

"But you're scared, too. And don't tell me you're not; I know you are."

Sherlock sat up straight, taken aback by Molly's assertion. His hand never left hers. Molly continued, taking advantage of her boldness before she drew back in on herself. She held up their joined hands. "You don't do this, Sherlock. Touching. Not ever - not if you can avoid it. You're scared, for some reason," she brought her other hand to his, sandwiching his large hand between her smaller ones. "You need this. Not me... Not me specifically. Just...contact. You feel the need to make contact. Like it'll help."

She felt sillier with each word she said. Sherlock ran his thumb across her own.

"It helps you, doesn't it?" There was something in his voice, something she couldn't place. "You spend your days acting like I'm dead. I would think that physical contact helps reaffirm that I'm not. Does it not make you feel safer, knowing that I will not let anyone harm you?"

Molly looked down, suddenly afraid of making eye contact.

"Doesn't it help you, to know that when he makes you seem worse than he already has and when he completely destroys your world, you'll have a solid person to rely on? Someone who will always believe in you?"

Sherlock squeezed her hand. "I'm trying to help you, Molly. I've brought you into this and I'm trying to keep you safe."

_Oh. _She understood. For the first time, she was truly sure she understood him, better than he understood himself.

He was pleading with her. He needed this, to keep being a hero. He would never admit it, even to himself, that she knew, but he need to keep protecting someone, something, even if he was dead to the world.

He still needed her.

"Right, um, I know you will. Keep me safe. I trust you. I just - you _saw_ him die."

Sherlock removed his hand from hers. "John saw me die. That's inconsequential."

"But you had me! You weren't alone. We both know you couldn't have done it alone. If he is alive, he's not alone... and we have no idea who he's working with and it could really be anyone and" she broke off, finally letting out a sob. Her body began shaking. So this was how it felt to be truly terrified.

"Molly." Sherlock's voice was steady and, to Molly's surprise, almost frustrated. "Molly, you're getting hysterical. Calm down, I will not let you get hurt for my sake."

She pushed herself off the couch, nodding slightly. "I should get to bed. I've got to work tomorrow."

Sherlock said nothing as Molly grabbed the two mostly-full glasses and returned them to the kitchenette. She scratched Toby's head as she made her way to her room.

"Molly," she turned, her hand on the doorknob. "Keep talking with Sally Donovan. Find out what you can about the investigation and keep me updated. The more we know about where he's not, the better we can avoid him."

She wasn't sure why, but she smiled. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

Sherlock's mouth twitched in a half-smile as her turned on the telly. Molly's hands were still trembling as she shut her door behind her and changed out of her work clothes. Her fingers could barely send a coherent text to Dr Ryan, telling him not to worry about her case - she'd be in tomorrow to go over the tests herself. Her entire body shook as she wrapped her comforter around herself. She had been scared the moment Sally had mentioned Richard Brook, but her conversation with Sherlock both terrified and assured her. She knew that Sherlock was telling the truth - he would keep her safe - but he had undoubtedly reaffirmed that there was a threat, a reason to fear the disappearance of James Moriarty. She clutched her pillow to her chest. Now, more than ever, she just wanted to return to her couch and curl up beside Sherlock Holmes. Maybe, in a perfect world, he would hold her close, lovingly whispering reassurances into her ear. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself not to cry. Sherlock said everything would be okay.

It would all be okay.


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N: Special thanks to my lovely beta, Priscilla and too all of those who read/reviewed the previous chapters. And, to those who asked, yes, the idea for this story did come from the Sara Bareilles song "Gravity."**

**Also, I'm really sorry about not having updated in so long. Horrible writer's block plus college is not a good mixture.**

* * *

Over the following several weeks, nothing changed. Molly went to work in the mornings and came home in the evenings. She'd cook or order in dinner for herself and for Sherlock. She'd make up excuses as to why her sister couldn't visit, why she couldn't watch her nephews for the weekend. She answered the door cautiously, making sure no one ever had the opportunity to enter her home without fair warning. Even between herself and Sherlock, things remained the same. He'd drink his coffee as she got ready for work each morning. He'd be waiting, just inside the door, when she got home.

But everything had changed.

She knew Sherlock slept infrequently - he had made her quite aware of that when he moved in. But she had caught him before, fast asleep on the couch when she would go for a glass of water in the middle of the night. But lately, he seemed to be awake constantly. More than once she had caught him perched on a chair long past midnight, staring intently at the door, as though daring someone to try to enter. Once, she had even awakened to find him in her room, checking the bolt on her windows. These occasions went unmentioned between the two, but Molly knew, without a doubt in her mind, that the great detective was pushing himself to the limit.

She looked at him over her coffee one cool October morning.

"Sherlock?" He said nothing, staring into in coffee mug as though it was taunting him. "Sherlock, when did you last sleep?"

He looked towards her, paler than she had ever seen him. "I sleep when I can."

Molly set down her cup. "I know your thing about sleeping and eating on a case, but you're not exactly working a case right now, Sherlock. I - I've seen you up at night. It's not healthy, you'll get sick."

"I'm fine, Molly."

Molly shooked her head, bending down to pull Toby onto her lap. "Don't lie to me. Please."

Sherlock set his cup down on the table, hard enough to make Molly jump. "And what am I supposed to do? Depend on your bloody cat to let me know if anyone enters your home while you sleep?"

Molly sighed, reaching across the small table to rest her hand on Sherlock's. "You don't need to try so hard to be the hero."

Sherlock quickly withdrew his hand. "Let me make it very clear, Molly Hooper, that I am no hero, not by any standard. But I would like to one day repay my debt to you. And allowing you to be killed in your sleep would not seem like a good way of doing that."

Molly let her head fall back, shutting her eyes and inhaling slowly. "Fine. Then sleep when I'm at work. It's not as though I'll come home to Jim Moriarty hiding under my bed."

Sherlock stared at her dead on for a moment before his lips curled slightly up and he, to Molly's surprise, let out a short snort of laughter.

"Sherlock! There's nothing funny about you _killing_yourself over this."

Sherlock let out another laugh. "There is something _incredibly _funny, however, about the most dangerous man in London - possibly the world - hiding under your bed. And have you forgotten? I've already killed myself over Jim Moriarty." He let out a third laugh before falling silent, staring into his coffee.

"That's not funny."

"No, no it wasn't." He looked back up at her. "I know how to handle myself regarding Moriarty, Molly. It's you I'm concerned about."

Molly stood up, grabbing her bag and jacket from the counter. "Save some concern for yourself. And if you want to repay whatever debt you think you owe me, you could just stay healthy, sleep, eat, do people things." She shrugged. "I've put a lot of effort into to keeping you alive."

"And I am grateful, Molly. I hope you know that." He took a sip of coffee, bringing his hand to his forehead. "I've a terrible headache. Do you have anything?"

Molly shook her head, walking past him towards the door. "Try sleeping."

* * *

She held the scalpel firmly in her hand, running it smoothly along the pale sternum on her table. At least it wasn't a murder victim this time. She smiled softly to herself as she examined the body. She knew it wasn't necessarily right to be smiling beside a corpse, but she felt calm in her morgue, she felt safe. It was silly, Moriarty had invaded the glowing white tiles of her sanctuary once before, who was to stop him from doing so again? But she told herself he wouldn't. It was her morgue, her safe place. She could concentrate on her work, on the eerie serenity that came with examining the human body once void of life.

"Molly?"

She turned with a small shout of surprise. "Christ, Max! You scared me." Taking a deep breath she turned back to her work, prying open the chest.

Max smiled, watching the back of Molly's head as she went back to examining the body. "I didn't mean to. It's not my fault you get so immersed in your corpses." He smiled teasingly, but Molly was too preoccupied to notice. "I haven't finished the reports for you asked for, I'm just waiting for a test to finish up."

Molly barely glanced up as she removed her hand from the open chest. "Oh? Well, I'll probably be here for a while, so you could just drop them off whenever."

"Right." Max leaned back against the doorframe. "Listen, do you want a coffee or something?"

Molly froze, her hand resting lightly on the exposed heart. She kept her eyes focused on the table, mind racing. She liked Max perfectly fine, but she didn't want to deal with the whole dating thing. She couldn't. And, given the way Sherlock had reacted to her going on a date with Greg, she worried how he would react if she started dating some hotshot doctor he had never met. Anyway, she was fairly certain she could never happily date anyone as long as Sherlock Holmes was living in her flat. Breathing deeply, she tried to recount all the ways people had let her down gently in the past. Come to think of it, Sherlock never really flat out rejected her, he normally just didn't realise what she was asking. Her mouth opened slightly as it hit her. He was no idiot. He just didn't want to say no.

Swallowing, Molly nodded, still not taking her eyes off the cadaver. "God, yes. I've barely slept all week and, well," she held up a gloved hand, wiggling bloody fingers. "Well, I haven't been able to get any myself. Um, a splash of milk and two sugars?" She glanced up, flashing Max a smile. "You're a lifesaver, you know."

Max smiled sadly, putting his hands in his pockets. Perhaps she still was as hung up on Sherlock Holmes as people made her out to be. Shaking his head, he turned and made his way towards the door. "I'll see you later, Molly."

"Bye."

As soon as the door shut, she let out a breath she wasn't aware she had been holding. Subconsciously, she wrapped one arm around her waist, placing her other hand on her forehead.

"Molly?" Someone's voice came through the door, followed by a knock.

She ignored the interruption, taking a moment to stand in her perfect silence. He was never oblivious, she repeated to herself. He was just turning me down. She could feel the tears welling up in her eyes, but refuse to let them flow.

The door opened, but she continued to stand still in the middle of the room. She just wanted to go home and sleep. And for Sherlock not to be there.

"Molly!" Someone ran over to her, gripping her arm tightly. "Molly, are you okay?" Sally's voice sounded worried, panicked. Molly shook her head.

"I - I was working," she choked out. "And - and Max, he...he..." She trailed off as Sally led her over to the chair.

"Max?" Sally pulled out her mobile. "The new toxicologist? I knew there was something up with him. If he hurt you -"

"No!" Molly extended a hand to stop Sally from whatever call she was making. Why would she think Max had - oh! She looked at her extended hand and then back up at Sally, letting out a short laugh and shaking her head. "It's not my blood." She froze, the meaning of her own words sinking in. "It's not my blood!"

Molly stood up and rushed to the sink, pulling off her gloves and washing her shaking hands before throwing handfuls of water on her face. Oh god. In a matter of months, it felt as though her life had completely deteriorated. Turning off the water, she dropped her face into her hands.

"Molly?"

"I'm so, so sorry. I don't - I don't know what's come over me I just..."

"Hey, it's alright." Sally placed a hand on Molly's shoulder. "Don't panic. We all have our days."

"Yeah."

The two women sat in silence for a while, Molly staring at the wall opposite her. She let out a low sigh, rubbing her now clean hands through her hair.

"I'm just, like, really _failing _at professionalism today."

Sally laughed, a sad expression briefly gracing her face. "Yeah, we all have those days."

Molly shifted in her seat. "So, um, was there something you needed?"

Sally stood up, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. "New case. Man probably murdered in his garage, but apparently no clear sign of death. Thought it might be a good idea to bring a pathologist along with, to examine the crime scene. But if you-"

"No!" Molly pushed herself off the chair. "Just let me grab my jacket. I'll come along."

Sally reached out, grabbing Molly's wrist. "No offense, Molly, but you kind of look like shit. I'll find someone else. Clock out. Go home. Sleep all night. You need it."

Molly shook her head. "But you said you needed - "

"Stop worrying, Molly. Trust me, you're not the only pathologist in London. The best? Sure, why not? But not the only. If you want the case, we can always go later in the week. Don't worry." She released Molly's wrist, looking sadly at the other woman. "Put the body away and go home."

Molly nodded, waving slightly as Sally left. Inhaling slowly, she made her way back over to the body and began closing the open chest. She should get home soon, anyway, make sure Sherlock slept at some point.

* * *

The moment she parked the car, Sally locked the door.

"Really, Donovan?"

Sally undid her seatbelt, turning off the car. "I just want to make sure you know that I'm the lead detective here. This is _my _case."

Lestrade let out an exasperated sigh. "I'm the bleeding D.I."

"Yeah, who should be on desk duty. The only reason you're here is because I asked for you."

"And why did you do that, exactly?"

Sally shrugged, unlocking the car. "A prestigious doctor was found dead in a locked garage with no clear cause of death."

"And..?" Lestrade asked, climbing out of the car.

Sally smirked, heading towards the house before them. "You could use some fun after all this desk duty. And, you know, Molly Hooper dumping your sorry arse."

Lestrade stopped in his tracks. "She didn't _dump _me. We weren't even together."

"Well," Sally shot him a teasing glance, ringing the bell. "You took her on a date and kissed her with the expectation of this being a recurring thing. In my book, what she did counts as dumping you."

"Look, I wasn't _expecting _anything. She's still in love with...Sherlock, if you haven't noticed. Anyway, who told you about -" He was cut off as the door opened.

A small, mousy woman in an old pink jumper stood before them, peeking through the slightly opened door. Pushing a strand of long, brown hair out of her face, she looked up at the the pair, wet brown eyes rimmed red.

"Can I help you?"

Donovan nodded, taking a deep breath. There was nothing she hated more than the families her victims left behind. "Yes. Mrs Richards, I presume?" The woman nodded. "I'm Sergeant Donovan and this is my partner, Detective Inspector Lestrade. May we come in?"

Mrs Richards nodded, opening the door. "I - I'm sorry it's so messy in here," she said, leading them into a small sitting room. "I haven't had time to tidy up and..." She trailed off, bringing a hand to her mouth.

"Don't worry about it, ma'am." Greg patted the woman comfortingly on the shoulder. "You, um, you have a beautiful home. May we sit down?"

She nodded, all three sitting. Donovan crossed her legs and looked around the room. Despite Mrs Richards's initial comment, the room was nearly immaculate: scarlet pillows on beige couches, healthy flowers on every surface. The far wall was covered with carefully spaced photos of Mrs Richards and her husband, the victim. With some effort, Donovan pulled her gaze away from the photographs and back to the woman before her.

"Mrs Richards -"

"Eileen, please."

"I'm sorry. Eileen, we don't want to bother you, we just have a few questions for you. For starters, where were you from ten to around midnight last night?"

Eileen slumped forward, her mouth opening slightly. "Am - am I a suspect?"

"Not at all!" Lestrade reassured her, leaning forward. "We just have to cover all the bases. We just want to find out what happened with your husband."

Eileen nodded, taking a shaky breath. "Of course. I understand. I, um, I was at work. At the hospital. London Bridge. I'm a nurse there."

Donovan and Lestrade exchanged a quick glance, nodding.

"Eileen," Donovan said softly, leaning towards the woman. "Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt your husband?"

Eileen shook her head. "It's - it's been years since he ever so much as disagreed with someone. Everyone loves him!"

"Maybe it's an old grudge, someone that wouldn't come to mind at first. Can you think of anyone?" The woman looked at Lestrade, still shaking her head. "Well, I - " he paused, pulling his ringing mobile from his pocket. "Excuse me."

Donovan waited until he left the room to speak. "Eileen, is there anyone, even from years ago, who would have any reason, any reason at all, to kill your husband?"

"No! There's no one! I -" She looked down, avoiding eye contact with Donovan. "Mitch and I...we keep...kept to ourselves."

Donovan nodded, staring at the woman. There was something oddly familiar about her. "I understand. Is there anyone who your husband may have talked to? Friends? Coworkers?"

"No one. Like I said, we...we mostly keep to ourselves."

"Of course."

"Sergeant."

Donovan looked up to see Lestrade in the doorway, nodding towards the door. She turned back to Eileen. "Thank you so much for your time, Mrs Richards. Again, we're so sorry for you loss."

Eileen said nothing; she simply stared at her lap. With a soft sigh, Donovan walked over to Lestrade and, together, they left the house, leaving the widow alone. As she turned on the car, Sally took a deep breath. The survivors were always the worst.

* * *

Molly kicked off her shoes as soon as she entered the flat. She didn't even care as she heard the bounce off the wall, clattering to the floor as a reminder that she would have to put them away later. Still in the entranceway, she leaned back against the wall, rubbing her face and sighing.

"We're ordering Chinese tonight." She paused, expecting some sort of argument. There always was one with Sherlock, although she was starting to believe that it had less to do with the decision she made and more to do with the fact that she had made an executive decision.

"Yeah, definitely Chinese." Still nothing. She opened her eyes, perplexed by the silence. "Sherlock?"

There was a soft scratching noise as Toby padded his was around the corner, pressing himself against Molly's ankle. Confused, she picked him up and made her way into the main room.

"Sherlock?"

A grunt from the couch answered her. Sherlock was lying down, an old navy comforter wrapped around him, with his hand on his face.

"Are you alright?" He shook his head, curling onto his side. Molly walked over to him, kneeling down beside the couch and placing the back of her hand against his forehead. He was burning up. She couldn't help but laugh. "I told you you'd get sick."

Sherlock shook his head. "'m not _sick_."

Molly stood up, walking into the kitchen. "Yes, you are. You're hot as hell!" She paused eyes widening as she realised her words. "I mean...I just... If you had listened to me and slept, maybe you wouldn't be."

There was a shuffle on the couch. "Where are you going?"

Sherlock was now sitting up, blanket still wrapped tightly around him. He looked paler than Molly had ever seen him. Dark circles lined his eyes, which seemed void of everything that made him, well, Sherlock.

"I think I have a can of soup somewhere. I'll heat it up for you. Stay put."

"'m fine."

Molly shook her head, walking into the kitchen. Ignoring Sherlock's protests of his health, Molly searched through the kitchen, finally finding an old can of chicken soup. Yawning, she put the soup on the stove. It felt like one of those days in which the world was ganging up on her. All she had wanted to do all day was go to sleep. But nothing could ever be so easy, and thus she was in the kitchen. A kitchen, she noted, that was in desperate need of a paint job. She reached out, running her finger along a chip in the paint. How long would it be before she could have someone over to fix it without risking Sherlock's safety?

She was torn from her thoughts by the sound of Sherlock stumbling into the kitchen, leaning onto the wall for support.

"Molly," his voice shook as he spoke. "Why - why do you keep it so b-bloody cold?"

With a sad smile, Molly turned off the stove and walked over to him.

"Come on." She put an arm around his waist and pulled his arm over her shoulder. "Let's get you back."

Together, the two stumbled into the sitting room. After helping Sherlock onto the couch, Molly turned to go in search of extra blankets.

"No!" Sherlock reached forward, wrapping his clammy hands around Molly's wrist.

"I'm just getting you a blanket."

"Stay. Please."

With a resigned sigh, she sat back down beside him. "Look at you," she murmured teasingly. "The great Sherlock Holmes, brought down by lack of sleep."

To Molly's surprise, Sherlock, pulling his legs onto the couch, laid his head on her shoulder. "This has _nothing _to do with my lack of sleep. Now be quiet, you're frustrating me."

"Oh?"

Sherlock nodded against her shoulder. "You always are."

Molly raised an eyebrow, unsure if Sherlock was being serious or joking. "Frustrating you? How?" Apprehensively, she rested her chin on the top of his head. "It's not on purpose."

"Obviously. You-" he paused to yawn. "You confuse me and that frustrates me."

She confused him? "How? How do _I_confuse you?" It didn't make sense. "You're not confused by anyone." She smiled, hoping to turn this into something humourous. Because it was: Sherlock Holmes confused by Molly Hooper.

Sherlock shrugged against her. He opened his mouth, as though continuing to to speak, but immediately shut it again. Hesitantly, Molly brought a hand and slowly ran her fingers through his curls.

"Are you okay?"

"You're the one who said I'm sick."

"That's not what I meant."

"All you have done for me, Molly. I can never... I don't deserve it."

Molly bit her lip and pressed her chin against his head. "Don't say that."

"Why? I've never been kind to you. I've tried, but as John has told me several times, I'm not very good at it."

"But you try. That's what matters."

"It's not." Molly was shocked by the strain in his voice. "I've treated you horribly, Molly. For as long as I've known you. You've shown me more kindness than I deserve."

Molly's fingers were now still on his head. Of all the things he could have said, that was the last thing she had expected. Silently, she allowed her fingers to drift down to his forehead. "You're burning up."

"You've already said that. Quite suggestively, I might add." Molly felt her cheeks heat up as Sherlock lifted his face, looking up at her. Molly stared back at him. He looked so tired. Frowning slightly, she ran her fingers back through his hair. "Don't look at me like that."

She withdrew her hand. "Like what?"

"Like you pity me. You...you are...I am not a good person, Molly. Not the way you are."

"Don't say -"

"I'm serious. You're...you're too kind. To me." He placed his head back on her shoulder. "I'm sorry to have placed such a burden on you. I never intended to complicate your life."

Molly shook her head, placing her chin back on his head, resisting the sudden urge to press a kiss on the top of his curls. "You didn't. Place a burden on me. And...and even if you had, what could I do? Let you live on the streets? Or...or die?" She shook her head, wrapping an arm around him, shocked when he didn't resist. "I - I wouldn't have it any other way, you know?"

"Why?"

Molly said nothing. Quite honestly, she wasn't sure why she had accepted him in the first place. True, she loved him, she had known that since she had first met him. Maybe there was no reason why she was helping him. For her to need a reason, saying no in the first place - abandoning him - would have to had been an option. And it wasn't. It had never been. When he came to her, months ago, in need of her assistance, saying no hadn't even crossed her mind. When you love someone, you do whatever you can to help them. Always.

But "Because I love you" didn't seem like an appropriate answer.

"You're scared to tell me." Sherlock's voice was soft. He sat up and stared at her, refusing to break eye contact. After a pregnant silence, Molly glanced away, down at her lap, fearful that holding his gaze any longer would tell him too much, more than she would ever want him to know."

"You should go to sleep."

Sherlock pressed back against her in response. They sat like that for what felt like hours, Sherlock's head resting peacefully between Molly's shoulder and breast, her hand running softly up and down his arm. This is how things should be, she thought, watching the shadows cast by Sherlock's eyelashes flitting against his cheeks. Molly listened as his breathing slowed, his head a dead weight against her, grounding her. Her worries from earlier in the day were now shadowed by her desire for time to just stop. All she wanted was to stay like this forever. No Max, no homicide, no Moriarty. Just her, Sherlock, and peace.

Stifling a yawn, she glanced at her watch. It was late; she should be getting to bed. Before she could stop herself, she dipped her head, planting a soft kiss on his forehead. As quietly as she could, she disentangled herself from Sherlock and turned around, spreading the dark red blanket over him. As she straightened up, he lifted a hand, intertwining his fingers with hers. After briefly running their interlocked hands along the warmth of his cheek, Sherlock pressed a light kiss into the palm of her hand. Eyes still closed, he released his grip and turned away from her, curling up on the couch as best he could. Hand trembling, Molly made her way back to her room.

It didn't mean anything. It was just Sherlock being Sherlock. He didn't care for her. Not like that.

_But what if he does?_

Molly shook her head, slipping into an old t-shirt. Of course he doesn't like her like that? The kindness, the reminders of her goodness, the respect. The kiss. None of it meant anything. The idea that he could like her was absurd! She would be less surprised to be told that she had killed someone in her sleep than if were she told that Sherlock Holmes actually cared about her. She turned to face her mirror.

"Idiot."

* * *

There were few things more blissful than when Molly woke up the next morning to the sun streaming into her room, glad to have the day off work, to have a day away from the hospital. A day at home with Sherlock. Slipping out of bed, she pulled an oversized jumper over her head and made her way into the sitting room. Sherlock was just sitting up when she walked in. She wondered if he would acknowledge the his actions or words from the previous night.

"Sleep well?"

"Mmm?" He looked up at her, blinking. Sitting up fully, he swung his legs over the side of the couch and ran his hand through his hair.

"Are you feeling better?" She sat down on the couch beside him, debating whether or not to rest a hand on his shoulder.

Sherlock simultaneously nodded and shook his head. "I must have been quite bad."

"Do you not remember anything?" Molly tried to keep her face neutral. Had he forgotten? Was their conversation as much of as dream as it had felt like? She watched as Sherlock eyes darted quickly past her into the kitchen.

"You made me soup."

She glanced over her shoulder, noticing the pot still sitting on the stove. "I'm glad you're feeling better."

With that, she stood up and walked into the small kitchen. She could feel Sherlock's eyes on her as she stood in front of the stove. Finally, with a soft sigh, she picked up the pot and poured the still uncooked soup into the sink.


	5. Chapter 4

**A/N: Wow, sorry it took me so long to update this. I've had a really rough semester. Thank you so much to everyone who read and reviewed that last chapter, you're all lovely. And of course, thanks to my delightful beta, Prisci.**

**Disclaimer: I will never own Sherlock. It's sad, but true.**

* * *

Sergeant Donovan had been staring at the image on her computer since she had gotten to work. The pathologist she had been using on her current case had sent it to her nearly an hour ago. The image and its accompanying message had her head reeling.

_Sergeant Donovan -_

_I've finished the full post-mortem and I think it would be best if you came down here at some point today. I will, however, summarise my findings. It appears as though the victim was paralysed (although I've yet to determine what paralysed him) and then they cut him open and sewed him back up after the victim had died. All the stitching is very precise, like what you would expect after a post-mortem. I believe that it was being - excuse the crudeness of the language - being cut open that killed the victim. The only abnormality - besides, of course, receiving an autopsy while still alive - was a piece of paper folded and placed next to his left lung. I've attached a scan of the note. If you can't read it, it says "I've done you a favour, kitten. Let's see if you deserve it."_

An apple crunched behind her. She swivelled around and watched Lestrade's eyes scan the screen over the top of her head. He cocked his head to the side and took another bite of his apple, chewing it slowly and never shifting his gaze.

"Well, dear ol' Mitch is becoming more and more interesting."

"Yeah, well, clearly someone didn't like him."

"Someones." Donovan raised an eyebrow as Lestrade perched himself on the corner of her desk, nodding to her computer screen. "Probably two someones: the one who wrote the note - three if someone else cut the body open and the note was just passed along - and '_kitten_.'"

"So...you're thinking not the wife, then?"

Lestrade shrugged. "I don't know about you, but she didn't really strike me as the psychotic type."

"Well, some psychos are damn good at hiding it, aren't they?" Donovan looked up at the sound of the new voice.

"John!" Lestrade stood up and made his way over to door. He gave him a sad smile, clapping a hand on John's shoulder and guiding him over to Donovan's desk. "So you'll give us a hand with this one?"

John shrugged, his eyes fixed on Donovan, who stared back, her mouth pulled into a tight line. "I don't see how I can be much help."

Donovan gave a half smile, turning her screen for John to see. "This is all we have, we have no other leads besides this."

John stared for a moment at Donovan's screen, his eyes flicking across it. He had seen a number of disturbing deaths throughout his career, both in the army and with Sherlock, but the description he was currently reading seemed to be the most vicious murder he had worked. "So, we're looking for probably three people," he murmured.

Lestrade took another bite of his apple. "Possibly two."

"No, not with this. The surgery, the note. This was carefully planned out, probably by someone incredibly smart. The note wasn't written by the same person who killed your victim. Not enough separation. Makes it too easy."

Lestrade caught Donovan's eye over John's shoulder and smiled. Regardless of whether or not he thought he was capable, John Watson would be incredibly beneficial to their case.

"Who did the autopsy?" John asked suddenly, turning to face Lestrade.

Donovan stood up and walked around to stand next to Lestrade. "Newer guy. Adam Green. Why?"

John continued to look at Lestrade, not even acknowledging that Donovan had spoken. "The note was to someone, someone that would definitely read it. A crime this intricate - there's no way he -"

"He?" Lestrade's mouth twitched as John looked at him. He knew exactly what John was going to say, but he figured it was worth giving him the pride of having to explain it. John raised his eyebrows.

"You've worked in homicide for years, Greg. I know you know that it's statistically more likely to be male." With a sigh, he looked down, unable to maintain eye contact any longer. "There's no way the someone would commit a murder this intense and just hope that 'Kitten' sees this. No, 'Kitten' is someone working on the case. Someone on this case knew Mitchell Richards. You need to talk to his wife again."

"I don't think we're gonna get anything from the wife, John. She seemed to be under the impression that her husband didn't speak to anyone."

Donovan turned to Lestrade. "Weren't you going to run a check, see if he had any family or anything his wife didn't mention?"

Lestrade nodded, taking one last bite of his apple before tossing it in the bin. "Got the new kid on it. He should be back soon."

Donovan sighed. "You couldn't have just done it yourself?"

"Oi!" Lestrade straightened his back. "I'm _your _superior!"

John looked up, eyebrows raised. "They fixed that up, Greg? Took them long enough."

Donovan let out a bitter laugh, causing John to turn to her with a cold glare. She shrugged, used to John's treatment of her. "Not yet. They're still pissed because they think he embarrassed them."

"Yeah, well," Lestrade walked back to Donovan's desk, looking again at the image of the note. "After this case..."

"I don't know," Donovan smiled. "I'm liking this position of superiority."

Lestrade laughed. John continued to glare.

"Inspector Lestrade?" A young man with ginger stubble approached them, waving a folder at Lestrade. Donovan walked over to him and took the folder, thanking him with a smile. The man continued to stand there, his eyes darting between Lestrade and Donovan expectantly. Lestrade let out an exasperated sigh.

"Well?"

The man turned and hurried away. Donovan rolled her eyes. "You don't have to be so mean to the kid."

"Oh, look who's talking."

Donovan snorted, opening the folder and running her eyes across the page. Richards seemed to have had a few family members scattered around the London area, probably estranged. She scanned the list of names, hoping to find one she recognised, another cop or maybe a doctor or...

"Fuck," she murmured, grabbing her bag and shoving the folder into it before turning around and snatching her jacket off her desk.

"Anything of interest you want to share, Sally?"

She spun around to stare at Lestrade, unsure of what to say. She could tell him what she knew, but she was sure that doing so would only make a mess of things. With small smile, she shook her head.

"I just...I realised that there's something I have to take care of." With that, she turned around and walked off, not waiting for Lestrade to respond.

* * *

Molly was used to days of silence. Sherlock had been living in her flat for months now and she knew that he could abstain from communication for days. But right now, she was tired of his silence. It had only been six hours and she just wanted him to speak. But he had been staring at her television all day, watching whatever would come on. But he was bothered by something, that much she was sure of. After the first few hours of silence, she had moved herself to stand next to the television, trying to catch his eye. But no matter what she did, she could not draw his eye. It didn't even seem as though he was watching the television anymore. He was just looking through the screen, his eyes wide and somehow both full and empty all at the same time.

With a resigned sigh, she walked over to the couch and sat herself beside him. "What's wrong?" He continued to stare ahead, completely ignoring her. Frustrated, she turned on the couch, crossing her legs and facing him. She stared at him for several long minutes until he blinked once and turned to face her, staring at her as though he had never seen her before. Molly felt her cheeks go pink. Sherlock cocked his head to the side unblinkingly.

For as much as he considered silly notions and sentimentalities like love foreign to him, he knew something of relationships and sexuality. He had been observing the people around him all his life. He had, as much as he hated himself for it, watched it on television. He had lived with John Watson, for Christ's sake! And what he knew, as much as he tried to ignore it, affected him. It had been bothering him for weeks, months now. He was unsure why, though, at this very moment, he felt the need to act on his urges. Perhaps it was something he had seen on the telly. Perhaps it was her presence, home rather than at the hospital. Blinking once more, he finally spoke.

"Did you have sex with him?"

Her cheeks deepened in colour. That was not what she had expected him to say. "I - who?"

"Moriarty."

Molly let out a surprised shout of laughter. "I - I'm sorry. I don't mean to - I just..." She buried her head in her hands and took a deep breath. "No, no I didn't. But...why?"

Sherlock shrugged, turning back to the television. "Curiosity."

"But why now?"

Sherlock shut his eyes for a moment. He had his answer. It was all he needed. Why did she need to know why? Did he even need a reason? "As much as it may surprise you, Molly, I do not always know what's going through your head. I was curious, so I asked."

Molly raised an eyebrow. "That was...ages ago. Why would it matter now?"

Sherlock turned back to her, staring at her as though he could believe why this bothered her. He sighed and reluctantly made up a suitable explanation. "Because you know it wasn't real. You thrive on your emotions and your emotional connections with other people, more so than most people. And now - don't look so insulted, you know it's true. And you know that nothing from that relationship was real. I never asked before, so I'm asking now."

Now it was Molly's turn to stare as though she was talking with a small child. "Of course I know none of it was real. I've known since you showed up at my apartment at three in the morning to let me know. I moved because of it. Why does it matter so much now? We both know he only dated me to try and hurt you."

"Because he succeeded!"

Since living with Molly, Sherlock had made more cruel comments to her than he cared to admit. Most, he completely ignored and just waited for Molly to either forget or move on. Occasionally, he had found her later, either in her bedroom or the kitchen or sometimes returning home from work, and, although the exact words "I'm sorry" seldom were said, he did what he could to let her know that he acknowledged that what he said was uncalled for. But regret was never immediate. Unless her reaction proved the cruelness of his words, he felt no need.

But this time, the moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them. How could she have known what was happening when he himself hadn't realised the extent of Jim Moriarty's lie? He had done his best to make it clear to her that he blamed her for nothing. But somehow, in one small exclamation, he ruined that for both of them. Because, most of the time, Sherlock Holmes was an honest man. And he truly did not blame Molly Hooper for anything. He never meant to make her think he did.

Before Molly's face had the chance to react, he reached across the couch, grabbing both of her hands in his own. She immediately withdrew them, folding them in her lap. When she spoke, her voice was softer than Sherlock ever thought it could be. She didn't sound like the cheerful, hopelessly romantic girl from the morgue. No, she suddenly sounded much older than he ever knew she could sound. She spoke like someone thoroughly defeated in all aspects of life.

"I know. I messed up. I...I'm kind of hopeless about things like that. Easy to take advantage of. It was...it was silly. And, um, my idiocy and stupid, _stupid_ idea of some fairy-tale romance, for what was not the first time and probably won't be the last, messed things up. And hurt people." With that, she stood up and gave Sherlock a sad smile. She glanced out the window. It wasn't even dark yet, but it didn't matter. "I should go to bed. Work tomorrow, you know."

He nodded, finding himself at a loss for words. He had always assumed that her life was simple, that her greatest tragedy was not knowing better than to love him. But the words she had said and the way in which she had said them made him question everything. Quickly turning off the television, he raced to the edge of the corridor, catching Molly as she made to shut the door. She looked at him silently, both praying for him to say something and dreading anything he could possibly do or say.

"You're not an idiot, Molly. Far from it. And I don't believe you have ever hurt anyone. Not intentionally. I don't think the same can be said for anyone else." She continued to stare at him silently, her lower lip sucked in slightly. "You don't give yourself enough credit. You count, remember?" He smiled at her, thinking back of the conversation that saved his life. With a nod, he turned back around and made his way to the couch. As soon as he had stretched himself along it, he felt the familiar pressure of Toby making his way onto his chest. As he shut his eyes, deciding it was safe to doze off, he was sure he heard Molly's door finally click shut.

* * *

The street was relatively empty for the time. People should be getting off of work and arriving home, but with the exception of an elderly couple taking a walk, the street was almost empty. The sun was beginning to set and casting a blinding glow on all the reflective surfaces. The glare off the hood of her car suddenly jolted Sergeant Donovan back into reality with a gasp. She hadn't taken a proper breath since she had opened the file. The second John had said that there had to have been a connection between the murder and those investigating the case, she knew he had to be right. But she had figured that it was someone obscure, someone unimportant. But the second she had opened the folder, she knew that her luck was out. With a shudder, she got out of her car and stood in front of the tall building. It could just be a coincidence; she could be here for no reason. But it could very well not be. She was about to finally reach out and push the buzzer when someone placed their hand on her back. She spun around suddenly, surprised by the contact.

A tall woman with curly blond hair and piercing green eyes was smiling at her, a slightly confused look gracing her face. "Sally Donovan, right?"

Donovan nodded smiling back at the woman. "Yeah, I was actually just about to call up for you."

The woman opened the door, gesturing for Sally to step inside. "Is everything okay?" She let out an uncomfortable laugh. "Normally when the police show up, something's not right."

Donovan shook her head. "No," she said, following the woman into the lift. "Everything's fine." She shook her head again. "No, sorry. I'm a bit off today. Um, your name actually came up in an investigation and I just wanted to talk to you before you got all wrapped up in something."

The woman exited the lift, leading Donovan down the corridor and into her apartment. "So I take that this is an official police visit?"

Donovan shrugged. "Unofficially official."

"Ah," the woman said with a nod. "Drink?" Donovan shook her head. "So can I ask what this is about?"

"Your cousin, actually."

"Cousin?" The woman picked up her drink and nodded towards and bright blue couch.

"Mitchell Richards."

The woman let out a surprised and vaguely uncomfortable laugh. "Mitch? God, I haven't talked to him since, well, since uni."

Donovan looked down at her lap. "He was killed the other day."

The woman stared at Donovan, her green eyes void of all emotion. Finally, she gave a sad smile. "Bastard had it coming." Suddenly, she clapped her hands to her mouth. "Oh, god! I'm not a suspect am I? That probably wasn't the best thing to say."

Donovan smiled slightly. "No, not really. Um, why do you think he had it coming?"

"Because he was a misogynistic pig."

"Care to elaborate?"

The woman only stared.

"Right. Well, then. Um, just a quick question: did he know Molly?"

The woman's eyes widened. This was not a question she had expected. After staring at Donovan in silence for a moment, the woman blinked and ran her fingers through her hair. "I, uh, Hooper?"

Donovan nodded.

"Why?"

Donovan glanced down at her lap. She knew that she technically shouldn't answer. She needed an answer, that was all. But she knew that, regardless of the answer, there could be no way that Molly had anything to do with this murder.

"It wasn't random murder. I just want to clear all possibilities, before bringing everyone else into this."

The woman nodded. "This is really something you should talk about with Molly."

"So she knew him?"

"Unfortunately. As I said, he was a misogynistic pig. But it's not my place to talk about it. She's your friend, right? So talk with her."

Donovan stood up. "Alright. Well, thanks anyway." With a small smile, she made her way to the door.

"Sally?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you just," she looked nervous. "Just, keep me updated, okay? If this goes any further with Molly and all."

Donovan nodded. "Course. I'll see around, Mary."

Mary nodded, standing up to shut the door as the detective left.

* * *

Sherlock couldn't have slept for more than a couple of minutes. When he opened his eyes, the last light of the sun was fading through the window. The evening news played on the telly, but there was nothing all that new, nothing particularly interesting. His interest had been sparked for a moment at the mention of the murder of some rich, young doctor, but he eventually went back to sulking when no information was given. He'd be sure to ask Molly about it in the morning. Maybe she could ask around at work. It had been a while since she had given him enough details of a case so that he could solve it before the police did. He had mindlessly begun to pet Toby when he heard the familiar sound of Molly trying to quietly open her door and make her way down the hallway.

"I thought you went to sleep."

There was a soft intake of breath and a cessation of the footsteps, followed by a moment of silence before Molly's spoke softly. "I got hungry."

"You're always hungry."

Molly appeared around the corner. "It's better than the alternative."

Sherlock sat up, swinging his feet to the ground. She had responded to that question with that exact phrase more than once. "One day, I'll find out what you mean by that."

"And until that day, you'll let me eat in peace."

The moment she had passed him and disappeared into the kitchen, Sherlock smiled. She never stayed mad at him for too long. He often found forgiveness a sign of weakness, especially when it was repeatedly given for the same reason. But with Molly, it struck him as a sign of strength. He knew very well that she remembered each and every time he had hurt her, but she knew when to hold a grudge and, most importantly, when not to. He was momentarily distracted from his thoughts when Molly's mobile began to buzz on the table.

"Your phone's ringing."

"Who is it?"

He glanced at the caller I.D. "Mary Morstan."

Molly slipped into the room, sliding in her socks, snatched her phone, and darted back into the kitchen. Sherlock listened carefully as she answered the call.

"Hiya, stranger!" So, clearly a close friend of Molly's, probably from childhood. He didn't get the impression that Molly went out much, at least not since he had moved in. Her call had certainly cheered Molly up. For a few minutes, there was only silence. Then Molly spoke in cool, apprehensive tone. "I've tried to forget about that, Mare. Well...yes, obviously I've failed quite miserably, but aren't we used to that? ...Alright, alright, sorry. Look, was there a reason for bringing - oh." After that, Molly didn't speak again for several minutes. Quietly as he could, Sherlock stood up and made his way towards the kitchen, pressing himself against the wall, out of Molly's sight.

"No, I'm fine, Mary. Really. I'll just...I'll call you tomorrow, okay? Bye." There was a moment of silence before Sherlock heard the crash of shattering glass.

"Molly!" Without a second thought, he dashed around the corner into the kitchen.

Molly was standing at the counter, both hand clasped firmly over her mouth. He followed her tear-filled gaze across the room to where a broken plate lay at the foot of the opposite wall. He looked back at her, not even bothering to hide the confusion in his eyes.

"I thought it would make me feel better," she whispered.

"Did it work?"

Molly's eyes narrowed as she considered her question. Suddenly, she seemed to realise where she was, who she was with. Her gaze fell on Sherlock and her eyes widened. "You have to go."

"Go?" Go where? Go when? She couldn't ask him to go, not now. She wouldn't be safe without him. He wouldn't be safe without her. And, although he would never say it out loud, he didn't want to leave her. He liked it there, with her and Toby. Fortunately, she seemed to understand his thoughts. She had a way of doing that, knowing exactly what he was thinking, even if he was scared to admit it to himself.

"Not leave. Just, you can't be here. Not now. I...Sally will probably be here soon and that would just be...that would just be not good and I can't deal with this now and _fuck!_" Molly picked up another plate and threw it across the room. Without thinking, Sherlock darted towards her and grabbed both her wrists, pulling her close.

"I'll go," he said softly, reading the panic in her eyes, "but I _need _you to tell me what's wrong. Really, Molly. You're starting to worry me."

Molly took a deep breath and nodded. "There - there was this guy. This...this absolute jackass. And I went to uni with him. And we dated. For a while actually." She glanced away from Sherlock, suddenly uncomfortable with meeting his eyes. "He was the first guy I loved. Or first guy I thought I did."

"I thought you said he was a jackass." He tightened his grip on her hands, not wanting her to pull away."

She shrugged, still avoiding his gaze. "We all make mistakes." With a sigh, she looked up at Sherlock. "Someone killed him."

Tightening one hand's grip on her, he moved his other hand to cup her cheek. It was a sign of affection and comfort, two things he supposed people like Molly needed when people they knew died. "I'm sorry."

Molly shook her head, letting out a cruel laugh. "No. No, no, no, no, no. Because I am not sorry. I should not be - I _am_ not sad. I should be grateful. God, I should be relieved. I've spent, spent _years_ worried that I'll see him somewhere. And have to talk to him. Have to see his p-perfect wife and hear about his stupid, perfect job." She was openly sobbing now. Sherlock moved his hand to her shoulder, unsure of what he could do or say to comfort her.

"I don't...He couldn't have been that bad."

"_He ruined my life!_" Molly pushed back with a screech.

Sherlock stared at her. He had seen Molly near hysteria on more than one occasion, but nothing like this. He stood there, his arm still held lamely before him, despite the fact that she was no longer within his reach. They both stood there, staring at each other in silence until there was the shrill buzz of someone ringing to come in. Molly sniffed once and wiped her eyes on her sleeve.

"That'll be Sally."

"I'll...stay in your room. Or go out on the fire escape."

"Alright." Molly continued to stare at Sherlock's feet, not moving to get the door.

Sherlock took a step closer to her and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "Look at me, Molly. Whatever he did to you, he probably deserved whatever he got. And it's not really the police. It's just Sally."

Molly smiled with a raised eyebrow. The kindness Sherlock showed when he wanted to never failed to surprise her. "I'll let you know when she goes."

With that, Sherlock made his way back into Molly's room as she made her way towards the door.

"Molly," he called quietly. She spun around to face him. For a moment, he just stared at her. He didn't know who this dead man was, but he hated him. He hated every fibre of his being. Molly must have known this man nearly a decade ago and the fact that the idea of him could still stir such strong emotions in her made him angry that he had not killed the man himself. And that he was Molly's first love! He was sure that he never deserved her. Unsure of what to say to her, he simply smiled before darting back into her bedroom and turning down the lights.

He listened silently as Molly let Sally in, as they got through the formalities, the unusual hour, the unexpectedness of the visit. He listened to Sally's uncomfortable laugh as Molly admitted that, yes, Mary had already called her and, yes, she knew the victim, they dated for a while. Worst, he listened to the way Molly's voice shook and broke as she told her story. And he understood why Molly wanted to be happy he was dead. For what felt like several hours, he fought the urge to go to where Molly and Sally were speaking and to just sit there with her. He needed her to know that everything was over and that he was here now, to keep her safe. Because that's what they did, they kept each other safe. Sitting down on the edge of her bed, he buried his face in his hand.

He would solve this murder before the police did, he was sure of it. And, when he did, he would be sure to send the killer flowers.


	6. Chapter 5

**A/N: Sorry again it took me so long to update. Maybe I'll start speeding up now that it's summer. If you've stuck with me though, you're a trooper. I know I don't update as often as people normally do, but I do the best I can.**

**Also, **_**totally casual **_**reminder the SAMFAs (Sherlolly fic awards) are now accepting nominations and this story is eligible. So, if you like it, I'd super appreciate anyone even considering it. All information is on the sherlloly website (Sherlolly dot com).**

**Finally, and most IMPORTANTLY, and I'm so sorry I never said anything before, TRIGGER WARNINGS. Starting in this chapter, there are mentions of sexual assault and attempted rape. Later chapters will probably also include similar topics as well as eating disorders. I'm really sorry that I didn't make this clear when I published the first chapter. This chapter is skippable if you don't want to read it, but I encourage you to contact me if you skip it so I can tell you the plot points vital to the story without you needing to read a more graphic description. If anyone would like to talk to me about clarification or anything at all, personal messages are always welcomed and you can always reach me on my tumblr.**

**Thanks to everyone who has read/reviewed the last few chapters. You guys never fail to make my day.**

**Disclaimer: Sherlock. Not mine. Except in my dreams.**

* * *

It felt cliché to say that the New Year's Eve changed her life. But it had, and she could not change that, no matter how much she wanted to. It was the end of December, 1999. She was twenty years old and studying biology and dance. The biology was for her father - he knew she would make an excellent doctor one day. "Brains and a cheery smile, Mols. That's the main thing people need." And he would know better than anyone. The dance was for her mother. It had been more of a deal than anything else. "Why bother with uni? You should just audition around, you'll find a place." But she had never wanted to be a dancer in the first place. So she had convinced her mother that she could get even better at uni.

She didn't study anything for herself. There would be no point in that. Molly sighed, taking a sip from the bottle beside her as she sat on the floor, absentmindedly painting her toenails. She could feel her flatmate's glare from the couch. Taking another sip from the bottle, she turned around.

"Wine, Hil?"

She could practically hear her shake her head. "I've got a paper due Wednesday."

"So? I got a bio thing on Monday." She stood up and, waddling on her heels to avoid messing up her toenails, made her way to the couch, plopping down besides Hillary. "Doesn't really matter though, does it? It's a Friday and it's New Years. It'll be a new millennium tomorrow. Plus, if the crazies are right, the world'll end before then or something like that."

Hillary stared at her. "How'd you even get in here?"

Molly shrugged, hopping back off the couch and headed towards her room to change. Once the door was latched behind her, she slipped out of the over-sized t-shirt she had been wearing and let herself tumble backwards into her bed. Her stomach let out a low growl and she felt it clench beneath her flesh. She laid her hand on the bare skin of her stomach and shut her eyes, smiling. After several slow minutes, she got back off her bed and pulled the new red dress out of her closet. She put on her makeup and pulled her hair out of her face. Mary had called her two days before and all but demanded that she looked her best for New Years. "I have a surprise for you." And Molly had known better than to ask what.

She had been tipsy by the time she got to the club. She sat down at the third table on the left. She knew Mary would look there. She was early and contented herself by fiddling with the paper napkin before her, pulling and tearing with slender fingers. She could hear the club filling and the chatter of people drinking to the upcoming year, but she paid them no notice. She was so contented in the joyful noise of the party that she didn't even flinch when an arm snaked its way across her torso, pulling tight.

"Hey, there, gorgeous."

Molly tilted her head back with a grin. "Oh, hush, you."

Mary pulled out a chair and plopped down. A young man with the same blonde curls and green eyes sat beside her, smiling.

"And so you're the famous Molly." She raised an eyebrow at the stranger. She didn't like charming. Her most recent stepfather had taught her that charming always meant hiding something. She set the ragged napkin back on the table, but remained silent, studying the man in front of her.

"Mols, love, this is my cousin, Mitch. He's gonna graduate, top of his class, and become a shit doctor who helps people for the paycheck. Mitch, Molly here is going to become either a wonderful doctor who likes to help people or a shit ballerina who wishes she had actually done something with her life." Mary's hair bounced as she pushed herself off the chair. "I want a drink. Anything for you - no, not _you_, asshole. No?"

And then she was gone. Molly gave Mitch a quick, tight-lipped smile, but quickly glanced away and began to one more pick at the napkin. She didn't need Mary to find her someone. She was perfectly capable on her own, thank you very much. She could feel the boy staring at her and, _dear god,_ why couldn't Mary just get back?

"You know, you're much more than I expected."

Molly snorted. "Yeah, well, same to you, mate."

"How so?"

Molly looked up at him, raising both eyebrows. "You exist."

Mitch laughed. "I guess my darling cousin didn't tell you she was bringing me."

"Mary likes surprises."

"And aren't you one. I was expecting some poor little girl, weak and scared of the world. Someone who needed help. Someone _boring_. But you're more than that, aren't you?"

Molly rolled her eyes. "Well, the boring part's true."

He cocked his head to the side. "Now, you don't expect me to believe that."

She shook her head. "Sorry to disappoint. Or not to, I guess, if boring was your expectation. I'm...I'm quite standard."

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you actually believe that."

"Then you're not as smart as your cousin made you out to be."

It was Mitch this time who shook his head. "Well, that's probably true, but the reasons are quite different. I suppose I'm just going to have to convince you, aren't I?"

"Of what?"

"Of how incredibly not boring you are."

She had been smiling when Mary returned. In fact, by the end of the night, by the time the new year had dawned, she had even agreed to have coffee with him the next week.

They had talked for hours. About school, about life, about family and friends and food and all those other things that had been tormenting Molly Hooper for almost twenty years. The words had flowed so easily and, for the first time in a long time, she was happy. When she had finally had to leave, he hadn't tried to make a move. He hadn't gone in for an uncomfortable kiss. For a moment, she had been scared that perhaps she had been reading all the signs wrong. But then he had asked her for dinner the following night and, with a rosy-cheeked grin, she had nodded and left.

The restaurant hadn't had a set menu. Well, not technically. But Mitch had said he knew the chef and insisted that Molly let him order for her. There had been asparagus cooked in a way that made it almost taste good, a salad full of ingredients she had never seen, but he persuaded her to try it anyway. There had been a pork filet with some sort of plum sauce and a strange grain she had stared at for several minutes before Mitch was able to convince her to eat it. She even finished the entire plate. He had smiled when she took that last bite, as if he had won some small victory. And then she had invited him back to her flat - Hillary was visiting her boyfriend for the weekend. But the night had ended worlds differently from what she had expected.

When they had walked in, she had flopped right down on the couch, crossing her legs and smiling. He stood there before her, his eyes wandering around the room as though he wasn't sure where to go, what to do.

"You can sit or whatever, if you'd like."

Mitch laughed, kicked off his shoes, and sat on the couch, crossing his legs to mimic hers and grinning right back. And then he began talking animatedly about everything and nothing. He was smiling at her and talking and laughing and joking and not touching. At first, she had been confused, but then she had been laughing along with him. Glasses of wine were poured and consumed and laughs became louder and merrier and the next thing Molly knew, she was inviting him out with her and her friends that following weekend. Mitch had accepted quickly, but insisted that they meet for coffee during the school week. "This weekend to next weekend is a long time." Molly had laughed, but she agreed. When he finally stood up to leave, he took her hand in his and pulled her off the couch as well.

"Can I kiss you?"

She was taken aback by the question. Most men didn't ask, they just assumed. No one had ever asked to kiss her before. She didn't know how to react.

"I don't know. Can you?"

He had laughed, his breath warm and soft against her face. "You should just give up medicine and dancing right now and become a teacher. _May _I kiss you?"

Only once she had nodded did he lean in for the sweetest kiss of her life. She sucked in her lower lip, grinning foolishly when he pulled away. He ran a soft finger across her chin, tugging lightly and pulling her lip out of her mouth. "You're far too lovely for that."

She giggled and kissed his cheek. With a smile, he turned to go. "I was right, you know."

"Oh? About what?"

"You're not boring at all. In fact, I think you and I will have quite a bit of fun together."

And how much fun they had had! Molly thought, sipping her drinking and watching Mitch talk with her friends. He was sitting in a corner booth, with Sasha on one side of him and Amy on the other. Eddie was laughing behind Amy, and Shay was staring at Mitch, his face perfectly blank, but Molly could tell he approved.

"He likes them," Micah murmured, resting his chin on Molly's shoulder from behind. They were up at the bar, waiting to bring the next round back to the table.

"He's charismatic," Molly said, leaning back against him. "He's funny. There's nothing not to like."

Micah didn't miss the accusation in her tone. "He's got to prove himself to me, I can't just go off loving every guy you bring 'round."

"Yeah, but Mitch's special."

"Oh?"

"It's been awhile since I kept one around long enough to show you lot."

Micah laughed. "True enough. I guess the real question then, Miss Molly, is do _you _like him?"

Molly stared at Mitch, cocking her head to one side. He was so engaged with her friends, getting along so well. He looked so happy, it made her happy.

"Yeah," she nodded. "Yeah, I do."

"Well, then," said Micah, kissing her cheek as the bartender handed over the tray of drinks. "I suppose I've got to like him, don't I?"

Molly grinned and helped carry the drinks back to the table, climbing over Amy and squeezing in between her and Mitch.

She kept smiling throughout the rest of the evening. She was sitting on the couch in Mitch's apartment, drinking a glass of wine and being happy. He was sitting on the couch next to her, his head resting on her shoulder.

"I liked your friends."

She nodded, taking another sip. "They liked you, too."

"Mm." He turned his head slightly to kiss her neck. "And what about Micah?"

Molly shut her eyes, wishing he would stop talking and go back to kissing her. "What about him?"

"You're very close."

"'Course, he's my...I don't know. He's my Micah."

"Your Micah?"

Molly cocked her head, trying to figure out exactly what she meant. "He's my rock. He takes care of me."

Mitch laughed and turned to cup her face in his hands. "Well, I can take care of you now," he said softly, kissing her lightly.

Molly laughed, deepening the kiss. It had been a long time since she was this happy. For the next few months, Mitch continued to spend time with Molly's friends and they continued to enjoy his presence. In June, he, alongside Shay, Micah, and Eddie, helped Molly, Sasha, and Amy movie into their new apartment. Or, rather, Mitch, Shay, Eddie, Molly, and Amy moved in while Micah and Sasha competitively flirted with the man on the first floor. After several hours, Shay had plopped down on the curb, where Molly was resting.

"Beer?"

Wiping the sweat from her brow, Molly had nodded. After handing over the drink, Shay had pulled his sweat soaked shirt over his head before turning back to Molly. She smiled, raising an eyebrow.

"If I'd known this was the view, I'd have taken a break a long time ago."

Shay laughed and flexed. "Well, well, Miss Molly, look all you'd like." Grinning, he lifted her hand. "Touch away."

Molly pulled back her hand, shaking in laughter. "Mmm...Sweat."

They both continued to laugh, exhausted from the day's work. Molly had not even realised Mitch sitting down on her other side until she felt the momentary pressure of his lips against her cheek. "Dinner tonight?"

"Aren't you all going to eat together tonight? Break in the new house?"

Molly shook her head. "It's Ed and Am's six month." She made a gagging gesture and Shay laughed.

Mitch stood up and held his hand down to her. "You look disgusting," he said, pushing a sweaty strand of hair out of her face.

"Yeah, well," Molly grinned. "We can't all be perfect."

Although, at the time, everything in her life seemed to be just that. A few hours later, she was sitting happily on Mitch's couch, staring out the window as he cooked dinner.

"Are you excited to finally live with the girls?"

Molly looked up. She hadn't heard him enter the room. She smiled and nodded. "It'll be good. It'll be nice to have place where we can all hang out and not have to deal with -" She held up her hands as though mimicking a monster - "_roommates_."

Mitch laughed and sat down beside her. "Well, your friends are pretty damn good."

"Only pretty damn?"

"Some are better than others."

"Oh?" This surprised Molly. Mitch seemed to get along so well with everyone. And her friends all seemed to like him back. "Um," she tucked a stray hair behind her ear. "Who - who don't you like?"

Mitch laughed his wonderful laugh and kissed her nose. Molly couldn't help but to smile. "Dislike is a bit too strong, Mols. I just think there are some people you spend time with who...who you deserve better than."

"But who?"

Mitch sighed and kissed Molly's cheek once, twice, a third time, before slowly making his way to her neck. Molly closed her eyes as she felt the blood rush to her cheeks. "Well," Mitch said quietly, his breath tickling her neck. "Shay kind of rubs me the wrong way."

Molly straightened up and looked at Mitch with raised eyebrows. "Shay? _Shay_? I mean, if you had said Eddie or something, I'd maybe buy it because, much as I love him, he's kind of a little shit sometimes, but _Shay_?"

"He looks at you weirdly."

"Bullshit."

"Really, Mols." He leaned back towards her, cupping her face in his hands. "He looks at you like you're nothing. It's disgusting. Because you, Molly Hooper, you are brilliant. You going to be a fabulous doctor one day, but people like Shay, they're the ones who are going to bring you down. They're the ones who are going to tell you that because you're a girl, you'll never be good enough."

"Shay'd never -"

"Of course he'd never say anything. But you can see it in the way he looks at you. He hates the fact that you're smart, a genius practically. Haven't you noticed the way he looks whenever you talk about school? Or the future?"

Molly shook her head. No, she had never noticed anything. True, Shay would sometimes tease her about her grades, the way everything related to biology just came to her so easily. But it had always been so light-hearted. Unsure of what to say, she reached for her wine glass on the table, took a too large sip, a looked straight ahead.

"Hey, hey! Don't look like that." She felt Mitch's thumb run along her chin and his lips press against her cheek. "Come on," he said, standing up and holding out his hand. "Dinner's ready."

Molly allowed Mitch to take her hand and lead her into the kitchen. She sat down at the table and watched as Mitch served a few pieces of broccoli and a large piece of salmon. Confused, Molly looked up at him.

She didn't eat fish. Ever since she was a little girl, she had never been able to keep it down. It didn't matter the type. Mitch knew that. More than once had she explained it to him when they'd be out at a restaurant and he'd try to order something he was sure she would love.

But Mitch's only response to her confusion was to smile and take his seat opposite her. He looked so proud of the dinner he had made. With a small smiled, Molly raised her glass.

"It looks lovely," she said, lowering her glass.

"Lovely meal for a lovely girl."

They ate in silence for a few minutes. She politely ate the broccoli and proceeded to cut up the salmon on her plate, hoping Mitch wouldn't realise she had never eaten any. It was a good trick - nobody beside Mary ever seemed to notice. And she didn't want to make Mitch feel bad about the meal, not tonight when he had been so kind to her.

"Are you religious, Molly?"

She looked up, caught off guard by his question. "Not particularly."

"Not at all?"

She shrugged, setting down her fork and knife. "I mean, my mum's Protestant and I think dad might be part Jewish somewhere, but I think that's mainly for the food. But, no. I mean, I never really thought about it or cared that much."

"So all your personal rules and such, you just...decide them on your own?"

Molly nodded, confused. "Yeah, I mean. I guess. I don't - I don't really have any 'rules,' do I?"

Mitch smiled. "Of course not, Mols. I just couldn't help but notice that you haven't taken a bite of fish."

Molly internally cursed herself. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she gave her boyfriend and apologetic smile. "I'm sorry. I, um, I don't eat fish."

"Why?"

Hadn't she told him this before? "It makes me sick. Always has."

"Well, that's rather childish."

Molly cocked her head. That was the last thing she had expected him to say. "I'm...sorry?" She wasn't sure why exactly she felt the need to apologise, but it was the only thing she could think of to do.

"So what we you going to do?" Mitch asked. He hadn't stopped smiling since the beginning of the conversation. "Just eat a few bites of broccoli and, what? Go hungry until morning?"

Molly shook her head, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "I - I don't know. I guess I figured I'd just have a snack or something later. Make myself a sandwich, I guess."

"You guess?"

"Well, you seemed really pleased with yourself. I didn't want to seem unappreciative."

"No, of course not." Molly couldn't help but catch the sarcasm barely hidden in his tone. He let out a low laugh that caused Molly to wrap her arms around herself. "Is this how your mum taught you to act when people cook for you? Just ignore and make yourself a fucking sandwich after?"

Before she could stop herself, Molly let out a bitter laugh. "No, my mum just taught me not to eat at all."

Mitch stood up from the table so quickly that Molly almost knocked over the wine glass resting beside her hand. "Then don't!"

"Fine!"

"Fine!" He walked around the table, grabbed her plate, and dumped its contents in the sink. "Fucking Christ, you're such a child."

"You're being an asshole," Molly said, getting up from the table.

"And you're acting like a five year old." Mitch brought his hand to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm gonna study for a bit and go to bed. Stay if you want. Or don't."

"What?" Molly threw open her arms as he walked to his room. "That's it? You're not going to apologise or whatever?"

"I'm not the one owing an apology, fucking hell."

And with that, he slammed the door. After stomping her foot, Molly sat down on the couch, pulling her knees to her chest. She would wait. She could wait all night, if she had to, but she would get an apology. She stared up at the ceiling, silently cursing Mitch for what felt like hours. At first, she ignored the pangs of hunger inside her. After almost half an hour, she considered going into his kitchen and making herself and sandwich or getting an apple, but she decided against it. Not long later, she began to like the pangs of hunger, a gentle reminder that his comments didn't hurt her. Don't eat? Fine, she didn't need to. She was strong enough and each pang began to feel more like a challenge to keep going.

With a sigh, she leaned back, shutting her eyes and hoping that, maybe, she could just fall asleep.

But she couldn't. Part of her, as much as she hated to admit it, felt guilty. Mitch had worked so hard to make a nice dinner for her and she had, what, only snapped at him for his food choice? How was he supposed to know she didn't eat fish? Even if she had mentioned it to him before, it wasn't his job to remember every little detail about her.

"Dammit, Molly," she whispered to herself, pushing off the couch.

Quietly, she made her way to Mitch's room. A light was still leaking out of the door. Taking a deep breath, she pushed it open. Mitch looked up at her entrance and placed the book he was holding down on his lap. Molly glanced at the clock on his bedside table. She hadn't realised how late it had gotten.

"Why are you still up? It's past four." Mitch said nothing. Biting her lip, Molly walked over to the bed and sat down beside him. "I - I'm sorry. I was being rude before and I don't know what came over me. I'm sorry."

Mitch was silent a moment longer, but then opened his arms to her.

"You were a bit...unappreciative," he whispered, kissing the top of her head. "But I suppose I love you anyway."

Molly grinned into his chest. "I love you, too."

After that, things went back to normal. They were happy. Happy together, at least. Three days after their fight, Mitch and Molly had been out to dinner with their friends. Like always, by the time their appetizers came, the topic of conversation had turned to complaints about school, about family, about life. Not one to stay out of conversation, Molly had complained about a biology course she was taking and how it was the most frustrating class she had ever taken. With a friendly laugh, Shay jokingly asked why, if she hated it so much, was she still taking it.

"It's pointless to waste your life on something you hate," Sasha had agreed.

"Exactly," Shay continued, smiling teasingly. "I mean, you can always just focus on dance."

It shouldn't have been a big deal. Molly often joked of abandoning dance to focus solely on biology or biology to focus her attentions on ballet. But she was furious. How dare he presume that she wasn't good enough to make it through to her degree, however hard it would be! She had told him, in no uncertain terms, to shut the fuck up about things he didn't know about and that she already had enough people doubting her and he had no right to judge her.

Before anyone could respond, she had stood up and all but marched into the bathroom. She stood there, staring in the mirror, for several long minutes.

"The fuck you think you're doing in here?" she heard a woman snap.

"Out," Micah's voice replied. "Get out. Now, please. Important business. Thank you."

Molly put up no resistance when Micah grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her around.

"What the fucking fuck was that?"

"What?" Molly snapped. But she knew exactly what Micah was referring to. She sighed and shrugged Micah's hands off her shoulders. "I'm sick of Shay treating me like dirt."

"When the _fuck_ does he treat you like dirt?"

"Always." She wrapped her arms around herself. "Mitch and I were talking about it the other night."

"Well, fuck Mitch then. Shay loves you, Molly. You know that. You're practically his sister."

Molly ignored the second part of his comment. "Don't talk about Mitch like that."

Micah rolled his eyes. "Hate to break it to you, lady, but I don't actually like him that much."

"Micah!"

Micah shrugged. "I'm blunt. Sue me."

It was Molly's turn to roll her eyes. "Can we just go back to the table? I don't want to deal with this right now."

"Yeah, whatever."

"What the fuck are you doing in here anyway?"

Micah grinned. "Kicked a little old lady out," he said, pushing the door open for her.

They made their way back to the table and, smiling, rejoined their friends. But something had changed, Molly could feel it. She could feel the eyes of her friends on her whenever she wasn't looking. Perhaps they didn't see it either, the way Shay acted. Maybe they thought her too sensitive. But she didn't care. She would not let people put her down. Not anymore.

And yet the coldness that had settled among the group didn't seem to let up. The girls never had the group get-togethers in their apartment that Molly had wanted. She found that, despite living so close, she was only growing more and more distant with Amy and Sasha. Lonelier in her new home than she had been with Hillary, Molly began spending almost all her time in Mitch's apartment. When the new school year began, she had, for all intents and purposes, moved in with Mitch.

It was a Thursday in the beginning of October and she was lying in bed, debating whether or not she would go home for her sister's fifth birthday. Her mother had remarried a few years back and, with her new, young husband, had decided to start fresh. Molly hated her stepfather almost as much as she hated her mother and, yet, her new half-sisters seemed perfectly sweet little girls and Molly savoured every moment she could help those kids resist their mother's influence. She had been so preoccupied in her thoughts, that she hadn't heard Mitch enter the apartment. She didn't even notice him until he threw himself onto the bed beside her and rested his head on her stomach.

"Hey." She smiled, running her fingers through his hair. "Where were you?"

"_Your_ place, actually. Sasha was rearranging her room and Eddie and I were helping out."

"Oh." Molly hadn't known. Come to think of it, it had been days since she had talked with either of her roommates. "I think you see them more than I do these days." She bit her lip, realising silently that her comment, which she had meant almost comically, wasn't a joke at all. In the past few months, she felt as though Eddie and Sasha and all her friends save Micah were Mitch's friends and that she was just the girlfriend. It felt so long ago that it had been the other way around.

But if Mitch noticed the sadness in her tone, he said nothing. He rubbed his hand up and down her side, silently counting each rise and fall of her chest. After a few minutes, he slipped his hand under her shirt and ran his fingers along the edge of her bra. Molly shook her head and tried to shrug him away.

"Sorry, love," she murmured, moving her hand from his head to his wrist and pulling his hand out from under her shirt. "I'm just...I'm really not in the mood right now."

Mitch laughed and rolled himself over so that he was straddling her. He pulled his wrist out of her grasp, intertwined their fingers, and pulled her arm so that their hands rested above her head.

"C'mon, darling," he whispered, kissing her neck.

"Seriously, Mitch." Molly squirmed beneath him. She should really just go to the library. She could be alone there. Or the lab, she thought. It would be empty at this time. "Mitch, stop it."

But his free hand was making its way down her side and his fingers were suddenly grasping at the button of her jeans. She could feel him hard against her thigh and felt, fleetingly, something almost like fear as she realised that he wasn't stopping. She moved her free arm to push him away, but his hand immediately left her button and brought her arm to join its mate in the grasp of his other hand.

"Mitch, this isn't funny." He said nothing. "Stop!"

"Shhh." His breath burnt her neck. "You think too much."

Without a second thought, she quickly brought her leg up, kneeing him hard between the legs. Mitch let out a yell of pain and surprise as Molly rolled out from under him.

"What the FUCK?"

But she had pushed herself off the bed and was already out the bedroom door.

"Where the _fuck_ do you think you're going?" His hand closed tight around her wrist, spinning her around to face him.

"Home!" She hadn't meant to shout it, but she didn't care. She yanked back, trying to free herself of him. "Let GO."

"What the fuck is your problem? You're acting like a spoiled child! You sat in here on your fat ass all day while I was actually doing things and helping _your_ fucking friends! I let you fucking live here, no charge. I fucking cook for you. I deal with your silly problems and all your shit about how your horrible, evil mother doesn't give a fuck about you and I ask for nothing. All I want is a nice girl to come home to at night, but you just sit here like a unappreciative bitch."

His head snapped to the side as Molly slapped him across the face. He turned back to her slowly, his eyes darker than she had ever seen them. For a moment, she forgot how to breathe. With a single yank, he had her back through the bedroom door and pressed against the wall.

"Dammit, Molly," he whispered into her ear, pulling her jeans with such force that the button popped off. "Can't you ever think about someone besides yourself?"

He shoved his hand down her pants and pressed himself up against her. He let out a low moan and Molly felt as though everything she had ever eaten in her life was working its way back up her throat. Why wasn't she screaming? Mitch had neighbours, they could hear. But she couldn't. She felt him pull his hand out of her pants and felt him go for his own button. Without a second thought, she dipped her head to his neck and bit him as hard as she could. Perhaps it was the pain, but more likely it was the shock and, for a moment, Mitch's grip on her loosened and she could push him away. She took off down the hall and was almost at the door when she felt his hand on her once more. Quickly, she spun to face him, kicking her foot as high and as quickly as she could. She caught his cheek with such force that he stumbled to the side, releasing her arm. As Molly raced out the door, she found herself incredibly thankful for the years of ballet.

Even running her absolute fastest, it was nearly a half hour before she reached her own apartment. She reached into her pocket, only to realise her keys were still sitting in Mitch's kitchen. She banged on the door furiously, screaming for her roommates. She knew in reality that it was less than a minute, but it felt like hours before Amy opened the door. She had the phone to her ear and was staring at Molly questioningly as she moved to let her through.

"Yeah," Amy was saying. "Yeah, she just walking in. I'll talk to her, don't worry. It's o - yeah, alright. Bye."

She hung up the phone and moved to sit on the couch. "You look like shit. Sit."

Trembling, Molly sat down on the armchair. "W- Where's Sasha?"

"Hot date. You going to tell me what's wrong?"

Molly opened her mouth, unsure of what to say. God, it couldn't have been more than a five, ten minute ordeal and yet... She nodded, looking up at her roommate. Her friend. "I - I was at...Mitch's."

"Obviously."

Molly's eyes widened at the coolness of her friend's tone, but she said nothing. "And… and he came home and I said I wasn't in the mood. I just...I just wanted to be alone. But he didn't listen and...and..."

Amy gestured as if to encourage the other girl to continue.

"I - I think - He...he tried to rape me." The word tasted like bile on her tongue.

Amy looked at her with big eyes, trying to comprehend everything that Molly was saying. Slowly, she stood up and, for a moment, Molly was ready to embrace her friend's comfort.

"You lying bitch. You horrible, evil, lying piece of shit."

Molly froze. All feelings, the horror, the fear, the betrayal, the nausea, seemed to flee her body, replaced by nothing but coldness.

"What?"

"Jesus Christ, Molly. He's been nothing but good to you. Fucking hell, when we first met him, we were all so glad that Molly had finally found someone good for her."

"Amy, I -"

Amy shook her head, tears pouring out of her eyes. "But you know, Molly, he's too fucking good for you." Molly made to speak again, but Amy cut her off. "Don't try to turn this around, you fucking whore. I just fucking talked to him! He told me everything. Everything you did. Everything he did. Everything you'd say. I thought he was joking."

"Amy, I don't know what you're -"

"OUT! Get out! Get out now, or I swear to god I'll call the police, I'll call anyone I can and have you thrown out."

Molly sat there, frozen, simply staring at her roommate. The room was spinning around them - or perhaps it was just her head. She opened her mouth to speak and yet no sound came out. Amy continued to stare at her, eyes full of anger, betrayal, fear, and pure and utter hatred. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, Molly knew she should just stay. She didn't have to go.

And yet sitting there, on her own chair in her own apartment, she felt more violated, more betrayed, than she had at Mitch's. It was as though, even from wherever he was, he surrounded her. When she breathed, it was all him and in him she was drowning.

She couldn't remember leaving. She couldn't remember where she had decided to go, but, next thing she knew, she was standing on a street corner, soaking wet, without anything but the clothes she was wearing. She hadn't realised it had started to rain. It had been such a beautiful day.

But then the air was dry. She could still hear the splatter of the rain on the street, and yet it had stopped around her. A familiar hand wrapped itself around her shoulder and she felt herself being led down the street, guided by a warm arm and Micah's comforting voice.

"I was warned you'd be coming here."

"I forgot where I was going."

"I know."

She was standing alone in the kitchen and suddenly Micah was there, pressing a sweatshirt and sweatpants into her hands.

"You own sweatpants?" She wanted to laugh.

Micah simply leaned forward, kissed the top of her head, and instructed her to go change.

When she returned, Micah was sitting at the counter and pushed a cup of tea her way.

"Don't you have anything more...alcoholic?" But she accepted the cup anyway.

"Amy called," Micah said quietly, ignoring Molly's question. "She said you'd be coming here and not to let you in. That you didn't deserve it. She said some things I didn't want to hear, I didn't like to hear. Things I don't want to believe and I won't believe until I hear your side."

"My side?"

Micah nodded and took a slow sip of tea. Molly copied him and, for a minute or possibly an hour, they sat in silence.

And then she began to speak.

She told him everything. Exactly as it happened. She told him that was said, what ran through her mind. She told him how she kneed Mitch and slapped him and bit him and he still wouldn't let her go. She tried to tell him of the fear of hearing Mitch's breath and only Mitch's breath until she remembered the faint _plop_ of metal on wood and the image of her button skidding across the floor.

And then she was in the bathroom, kneeling before the toilet with her entire body trembling. Micah's hands rubbed circles onto her back and stroked her hair back out of her face. When she finished, she leaned back against him and, to her great comfort, felt him wrap his arms tightly around her and kiss the top of her head.

"He told Amy you were lying. He called her, I guess, before you got home. He said that you were being all...clingy when he got home. And that he had a long day and just wanted to rest." Micah paused, running his hand up and down her arm and holding her close. "He said that you threatened to accuse him of...of doing exactly what he did. If he didn't...put out. He told Amy he thought you were joking, but then you ran out and he got scared."

Molly said nothing. She simply sat there, trying to figure out what exactly it was Micah was saying. It didn't make any sense. No sense at all. Mitch's attacked _her_, why was she suddenly the villain? Again, she felt the strange sensation of drowning. Not in air, not in water, but in the mere knowledge of Mitch's existence.

"I can't breathe," she whispered, tears threatening to finally come free.

Micah was silent. He just sat there, holding his friend until she finally found her breath and, for the first time, cried. They sat like that for hours, holding each other on the bathroom floor. By the time Molly's sobs ended, the rain outside had ceased.

"Are you going to call the police?"

Molly stared at the wall opposite her. She hadn't thought of that. The idea hadn't even crossed her mind. "I - I don't know."

In retrospect, it would have been a good idea. By the next morning, everyone she knew - and many people she didn't - seemed to know what had happened. Or, at least, they knew what Mitch had told Amy, who, not unexpectedly, told everyone she knew. Overnight, Molly Hooper had gone from somewhere between a no one and a sweet and witty biologist to the most cruel and hated girl anyone had ever met. Wicked mouths and worse eyes followed her wherever she went. No one talked to her unless they were spewing hate. No one save for Micah. Micah, who had so wonderfully gone to the old flat and collected Molly's belongings. Micah, who broke up with his oh-so-perfect boyfriend because trying to spare Molly from as much hate as he could was his sole priority.

By November, she could no longer take it. She couldn't live in his debt. So she left. She left school, left her studies. She left dancing and biology and all hopes of becoming a doctor and moved in with her father. He was sick. He needed her. Her studies could wait. Her loneliness was nothing.

But by February, her father knew that she couldn't busy herself with him much longer. He tried to encourage her to move forward with her life. Find a new university, be a doctor. Save people. But he was the only one she cared about saving. And by April, he was gone.

You can't save anyone, Molly, she told herself. Not Dad. Not yourself.

In September, she started at a new university. She continued studying biology. She avoided getting to know people, they all just end up leaving.

She was never exactly sure why she decided to become a pathologist. Perhaps it was to help catch those who hurt others. Perhaps it was to help ensure that someone always took care of the dead, that they were never forgotten. Or maybe, just maybe, it was to avoid the living. Dead people don't lie. They can't sneer at you as you pass. They can't remind you that you're less than nothing. They can't die.

The dead are easy, she concluded. The dead can never hurt you.


End file.
